Atonement
by Sandfire Kat
Summary: Sherlock Holmes from District Three, finds himself thrown into the wildly dangerous and violent Hunger Games. Surrounded by unfamiliar faces and faced with the impossible task of somehow returning home, surviving slowly becomes impossible underneath secrets and betrayal. The Hunger Games were meant for a repentance of past sins against the Capitol. But the sins it creates are worse
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I am well aware that this idea has been wrung out and rather overused. However, finding myself having a sudden craving, I figured that there wouldn't be much harm in trying out the idea myself. Hopefully I'll do the plot success, and people will like my take on the universe of a BBC Sherlock AU into the Hunger Games. Thank you for your time, and I hope that if you like my story, I'll hear it from you in a review!

**~Little to no ideas will be used from the actual book. I wanted my story to be original and unique. I will not be going along the plot stated in the Hunger Games series; it will be vastly different. I will also slightly change a few of the regulations, in just the attempt to keep my ideas realistic and of value. Not big things of course, but as you****'****ll see, just little ones. A warning to those who might have expected anything different.~**

(~**~) (~**~) (~**~) (~**~)

District Three was glorified for its understanding and usage of various kinds of electronics. Anything ranging from standard mechanical products such as automobiles or firearms, or the more intricate of knowledge of such works and many more were designated for this specific area. Children grew up learning 'common' facts such as how a spark of electricity can measure up to about 3,000 volts, or that electricity can be made from anything ranging from water to animal feces. And following such an upbringing, there are always set jobs to aspire to reach, mainly things such as inventors, technicians, experimental physicists, and many others along such a line.

That is to say whether or not you would make it to reach such an age.

A rather grim thought to have cross the mind, and yet on such days as this one, it was nearly impossible to evade it. Besides, it wasn't as if he was the only one to be thinking such things. The dark-haired boy narrowed his eyes a bit at the thought, and he got up to his feet to transition from his chair to the window.

He craned his neck, peering down at the people that were milling by on the streets below. There was a subdued air that lurked around the area, nearly tangible in its own thick sort of way. People exchanged glances, but it was obvious that they were not about to engage in extensive conversation. Though the window was closed and hearing was not an option from this far away anyway, the mute mouthing of lips could only be pointed to small: 'Good luck's and 'Have faith's. Not to mention the overused, partially pointless offers of: 'May the odds be ever in your favor.'

It was another reaping day. Time had passed and yet again the Capitol was demanding atonement of the past in the form of a boy and a girl from each District. This year was the boy's third consecutive year. His name had been offered into the 'lottery' a total of three times. Three out of the many that were piled and stacked together, though he was lucky that with his fathers' position as Mayor, the number was no higher. Needing no extra turn-ins for things such as food, his was a mere three, his brothers' a number of seven. Their chances were not as high as others to get chosen thanks to their high rank in the community; he should be grateful.

But grateful was the last emotion that the boy was going to experience. Turning away from the window and the scene that was resting below it, he delved back into his room, suddenly needing a distraction from his own thoughts. He chose said distraction to be in the form of a book, one of which he had read many times. He perched on the edge of his bed and cracked open the well-worn pages, eyes flitting down to the pages and scanning the words with an absent sort of stare.

District Three wasn't a wealthy area. It wasn't a poverty-stricken one either. While it used to be vastly prosperous, during the Dark Days, they had been quickly drained of whatever excess wealth and power they contained. Which left it to be classified as a Middle Class District, though the title was a little bit more than flexible for the boy's family, since his father and mother were widely respected people. Their additions and contributions to science and mechanical engineering alike were widespread in more than their own District, which helped them to maintain a higher standard than most others.

"Sherlock."

A sudden voice interrupted the boy's reading, and the fourteen-year-old's neck snapped up at the sound of his name. He opened his mouth, already arming himself with a swift excuse if it was his mother again. She had already let herself in to remind him that they were leaving soon, telling him that he should get dressed and make himself 'presentable' before they left for the reaping. He had already shooed her out three times now. He was ready for a fourth. But whatever words he was planning died on his tongue at the sight that stood in his doorway.

Sherlock soured. He looked back down. "What do you want?" He huffed.

Mycroft offered his own sigh. He let go of the doorknob, leaving the door ajar and making a move to step farther into his brother's room. However Sherlock glanced up from his reading, the youth's eyes flashing warningly at the movement. So Mycroft abandoned the idea, drawing back and pinching the bridge of his nose as he willed himself patience. He always did, with the boy. "Mother is upset." He spoke up after a small burst of silence. Sherlock scoffed and looked back down at his book. "You really do need to pay more mind, Sherlock."

"Do I?" Sherlock growled, shuffling backwards so that his back was pressed to the wall. He drew his knees up to his chest and held his book closer to himself in turn. His forehead creased over with concentration, and he tried to focus on the words that he were in front of him. 'For example, there is a very substantial correspondence between brain areas involved in phonological coding in reading words and in retention of verbal information in working memory. Such a correspondence is implied by-'

"Yes." Mycroft answered cooly, a deep scowl rolling over his face as he coughed pointedly. Sherlock cringed in annoyance, the boy's teeth set on edge as he was subjected to looking back up. His irritation must have shown quite plainly, because Mycroft only soured further as their gazes met. The eighteen-year-old brushed into the room despite Sherlock's sharp yell of protest. He marched over to the drawers on the opposite side of the room, and, only taking a total of a few seconds, tossed an outfit over at Sherlock, who made a disgruntled noise at the collision. "Put that on." He snapped.

Sherlock sighed airily, knowing that it probably would be a smart idea to hurry up and change so that they weren't late. Late arrivals were not preferred, even if they were of the Mayor's relation. But he would surely be caught dead before he would give into what Mycroft wanted so easily. So he got up to his feet, making his motions painfully slow as he turned, folded his book closed, set it aside, made his bed a little bit neater, drew a hand through his hair, examined the clothes, pursed his lips, contemplated their appearance, and straightened the collar of the button-down shirt.

He could have gone on longer— he had before on several occasions. But Mycroft was well aware of this little game, and heaved yet another sigh as he turned to leave. Sherlock twisted to look back with a rather successful grin. However, as Mycroft was just starting to make his way back to the hall, he hesitated. Sherlock's smile wavered at this, and he turned back to his clothes and put his back to the elder. But still, it did not deter him. "Sherlock." He said again, staying in the doorway this time as he addressed his younger brother.

Sherlock did not offer a reply, though a flash of interest did catch the teenager's eyes as he heard the significant change in his brother's voice. Mycroft paused, very clearly offering a chance for the younger to interject as he usually did. But, as Sherlock usually did, he remained silent. So the brunette went on regardless. "Please don't be difficult." He sighed, not catching the boy's flared expression since he was turned away. "Not today at least. You know how much this upsets Mother. And it would be _greatly _appreciated if you would stop being so dense and think for a change." This was highlighted with heavy sarcasm.

"Well out of all days, why today?" Sherlock snapped back tartly. He did not wait for a reply, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. "Please leave, Mycroft. The sooner you leave, the sooner I will get dressed, and the sooner I get dressed, the sooner we can leave and watch others be sent to certain death. And I am not sure about you, but the sooner we get to do _that_, the wholly better I will be."

"Please, Sherlock." Mycroft growled. "You don't know whether or not it will be certain death."

"Please leave." Sherlock parroted with yet another roll of the eyes. "We never stand a chance against the Careers. Our Tributes be out in the first five minutes; that's always how it is and that's always how it will be. We haven't had a Victor in ages." He added in a small grumble.

Mycroft didn't reply. At the silence, Sherlock turned, ready to snap out yet another retort. But he was stopped as he met eyes with Mycroft and frowned, more out of confusion than anything else. The older boy's eyes were oddly pained as he stared at his younger brother. Sherlock blinked rapidly, taking a small step backwards as he drew his clothes closer to his chest. And before he could think of what he was saying, he mumbled out almost absent-mindedly: "…It's only seven." He said, as if he were trying to point out a fact. "…it's your last year."

Mycroft didn't respond for a moment. There was a long bout of silence, in which Sherlock immediately found himself regretting saying something so blatant. But then Mycroft cleared his throat, blinking rapidly as he shook himself. "I know." He said almost flatly, his voice a little too loud as he spoke. Sherlock eyed him apprehensively, unsure of what to say. "I know." Mycroft repeated again. "Just- could you just-" He shook his head, turning and making for the hall yet again. "Just get dressed. Please. Just get dressed." He grumbled underneath his breath.

Sherlock started to say something, opening his mouth as he tried to come up with some retort or snappy remark like he usually did when his brother took charge. Or at least attempted to. But Mycroft wasn't waiting for it, the door open only long enough for a dog to slip through before it closed again. It was a loud slam— louder than was called for. The fourteen-year-old winced at the loud noise, a confused look overshadowing his normally inquisitive stare as he looked blankly at the spot where Mycroft had disappeared.

He waited, almost like he was ready for Mycroft to come back in and call everything off as a joke. The odd expressions and even odder actions were unheard of for his older brother, and it wasn't often that he was unlike himself. The most out of character thing that he had done so far was congratulate Sherlock on an achievement without a hint of sarcasm. Granted that this day usually called for more of an…emotional approach…but this was his brother in question. He wasn't like the others already assembling in the square.

Nevertheless, there wasn't another barge-in. "What was that for?" He mumbled, almost to himself. Sherlock turned, looking down at his dog, who had parked itself neatly at his feet to look up at him adoringly. Redbeard beamed and wagged his tail with a loud thump, giving out a soft bark to the boy as their gazes met for more than a few seconds. "You're not offering me much." Sherlock mumbled down at the animal. Again, the only reply was a small chuff.

Sherlock's face melted into a smile. He leaned down and stroked the dog's head, allowing himself to feel a small bubble of affection as he planted a kiss on the Irish Setter's head. "Alright, then." He sighed, turning and looking down at the clothes that were laid out on the bed in front of him. They looked horribly tight and uncomfortable. He glanced over to the window, at the street below and the crowds that were slowly massing. It looked hectic and claustrophobic. He gave a tense nod, accompanied with a small sigh.

Reaching over and holding up the stiff-looking, formal clothes, he set his jaw backwards.

"Into battle."

(~**~) (~**~) (~**~) (~**~)

The crowd was already taking their last spots by the time the Holmes family made their way down. Families greeted their presence with courteous nods and murmured greetings, which were returned just as quietly. Sherlock stayed close to his mother's side, more because of the fact that his mother had a vice grip on his hand out of anything. He stole glances her way every once and a while, able to read his mother and father like a book thanks to the many years of practice.

From Sherlock's very first memory of the reaping, when he was eight and Mycroft was twelve, things had always been the same. His father was tight-lipped and silent, his lips pulled down into a frown, which was a contrast against the usual upbeat smile he wore. He said absolutely nothing to his sons, yet Sherlock could feel his gaze flicker over to the pair of them every once and a while. No words were said and no emotions were voiced; there wasn't a need for them.

His mother on the other hand was obviously unconcerned with showing such an open sense of herself. Her jaw was set backwards tightly, and her knuckles were white as she held tightly to her son's hand. Sherlock debated on counting the sheen over her eyes as the sun casting an odd glow over them, though he wasn't quite in the mood to lie to himself. There were a number of things he could say to her. Like the fact that they hardly made up a percent in the drawing. Or that anything happening exactly to them was a minuscule chance if any. But he knew better. He opened his mouth for such smart talk and he would earn a snippet lecture in his ear.

His father was expected on the stage, since he was a high-ranking official. Sherlock's mother, on the other hand, was expected to stay in the crowd with the rest of the parents. They would be parted for the drawing, and it was obvious from the look on his mother's face that she detested the idea of each of her boys splitting up and leaving her behind. Her husband had to speak aloud and welcome the start of the ceremony, and her sons had to wait to hear the names called, and she was to stand back and watch passively like she did every time.

His father minced little words. He patted Mycroft on the back and ruffled Sherlock's hair, which had been fixed tediously by his mother prior to their arrival. But his mother didn't snap at the ruin of her work; she just looked on quietly. "Your mother will be waiting here when it's over." Sherlock's father assured, as he did every reaping. Sherlock replied by letting go of his mother's hand.

"Be good." The woman fretted instantly. Mycroft escaped with a tight hug, to which he rushed out of with a rushed and hurried grimace. Sherlock however, much younger than his brother, did not get off so easily. She crouched down, fixing his tie and smoothing out the collar of his white shirt, which had turned up on accident as he walked. "Mike, you need to show Sherlock where to stand this time, and please don't insult anybody standing around you like you did last time, okay Sherlock?" She asked in concern, the young boy scowling deeply as he tried to wriggle out of his mother's grasp.

"I'm fine." Sherlock growled through clenched teeth. "And Mycroft doesn't need to show me where to go; I can take care of myself." He could tell just standing here where he needed to go. The others aged fourteen were nearer to the back than Mycroft would be. Mycroft was to go up front with the others for their final year in the reaping. His older brother was staring over at the spot just now, a wrinkle in his forehead as he studied the area.

"Mike; please take him." His mother repeated, licking her hand and flattening the errant curl that always drooped down from his forehead. That drew the line, and Sherlock gave a loud yelp as he pushed his way out of her reach. His mother sighed sadly as he backtracked, but she received the message as she stood and moved back. She looked as if she was about to say more, but she shook her head. "I'll see you in a little bit." She promised instead. Though she did flare as she added a little sharply: "I mean it, Sherlock. Don't go and rile everybody up like last time. I don't care how many girlfriends the person standing by you has."

"Mother." Sherlock growled under his breath. "I'm not a child."

His mother only sighed and rolled her eyes again. It only furthered his sourness.

Mycroft reached over, grabbing his younger brother's shoulder and steering him around. Sherlock hissed and tried to duck out of the grasp, but it was pointless. So he resigned himself to trudging beside his bother and glowering deeply. Mycroft noticed his disdain as soon as it started to claw at his stomach, and Sherlock growled again as he signaled it out. "She's only worrying, Sherlock." His brother sighed, with the tone that obviously said: 'I know so much more than you do, little brother.' "You always upset her."

"Maybe if she stopped treating me like a child I wouldn't upset her." He mumbled, swerving to the side in order to walk around a blonde-haired female.

"Maybe if you stopped acting like one she would."

"It's better than acting like a know-it-all." Sherlock snapped. They were a few yards away from where he would have to stand now— the sooner this entire thing would be over, the better. Mycroft was giving a retort to his jab, but he wasn't listening anymore. He instead let his gaze drift over the crowd almost lazily, his inquisitive blue eyes drilling out every secret that might be hiding from him. It was more of a hobby for him, considering the fact that anything he could aspire to be in the future dealt with engineering or electricity. But now, walking through the dense crowd of children and teenagers and the sparse adults there as well, the thought did not occur to him.

The blonde he had nearly run into was a cat lover. The mother waving goodbye to her son was exactly eight months and three days pregnant. The father patting his son on the back skipped work yesterday under the assumption that he was sick when really he was out in the nearby bar and drank himself silly from the way Sherlock could smell him from all the way over here. Trivial pieces of information at hand, but it was always fun to drill into peoples' daily lives. To know that, despite the way he was often handled, he was fully capable of knowing information often secluded from others.

"Sherlock." Mycroft huffed, the boy starting as he realized that they had reached the other kids that were fourteen. He shrugged out of Mycroft's grip, and this time his older brother let him. But he did not move, and when Sherlock turned to raise an eyebrow at him, he gave a small cough, looking a little odd. Looking like he had before. "Just…promise me you won't do anything stupid." He said bluntly.

Sherlock continued to eye him, and it was a second before he reaffirmed his statement from before. "You won't get picked out, you know that, right?." He asked, his voice a little heightened, as if Mycroft was daft for not realizing this. And he was, in a sense. But then again, Sherlock was under the impression that he was always daft. Mycroft reached up to rub at his forehead, something akin to a flinch passing over his features. "Your name is only entered into the drawing seven times."

As soon as this was out of his mouth, Mycroft spoke over him, a bit harshly. "And your's is entered three times." He flared. Sherlock snapped his mouth closed at this, eyebrows pulling together as his head tilted briefly to the boy considered that Mycroft was just getting back at him, that he was pointing out the obvious in return for Sherlock's own snippy behavior. But the expression written over his face was clear that he meant no such thing. And Sherlock found himself at a loss in what to say.

It was a moment before he shook his head gently. "What do you want me to say to that?"

Mycroft shook his head. "Just— stay put." He sighed, knowing that he had said too much in the first place. "I'll meet up with you afterwards, or Mother will be upset that I didn't find you again." Sherlock still said nothing. Though his skin burned at the idea that Mycroft was assigned to hold his hand everywhere, he was still stunned into what his older brother had implied, and at what his expression was showing. He was…concerned?

His brother was gone before he could say a word. Sherlock's eyes trained themselves onto his figure as he made to the other eighteen-year-olds, the boy able to pick out his brother from the others by the mop of his hair which was quite different from Sherlock's own messy curls. He blinked, looking around those around him and wondering what to do from here. He could hardly move with this huge crowd. He remained tight-lipped, taking his mother's advice a bit reluctantly in the sense that he didn't want another black eye this time around.

The ceremony started shortly. There were a total of three chairs lined up on the stage in front of the large crowd. One of which contained his father, Mayor Holmes. The other was District Three's escort, a member of the Capitol who Sherlock couldn't be bothered to remember the name of. Which was also true for the other chair beside the Capitol member, where a man with graying hair and a slight stoop to the back sat watching everyone in front of them. Sherlock could never remember his name, such a trivial piece of information wasn't exactly needed for him. Though he did identify the man as the only surviving victor from the Hunger Games for their District. He'd won years and years ago, back when his hair wasn't streaked with silver and his eyes not lined with bags. His name started with a 'G' Sherlock thought. Though the rest was a mystery.

His father did the standard in which was expected of him. Standing up from his chair and making his way to the front of the stage, Mayor Holmes let his gaze linger over his children briefly before delving into the history of Panem. He speaks about how the Hunger Games are a symbol of penance and a symbol of new life. He lists the total number and names of each Victor of the Games who came from District Three, including the one sitting up on stage.

The entire thing was the same as every year, and Sherlock found himself letting his mind wander. After this, Mycroft would be done with reapings and he could move onto different things. He was considering either Assembly Operator or an Inventor, both being jobs that their father was overjoyed with. Needless to say, dinner had been filled with conversation about such work these past few weeks. It was quite dull and uninteresting. Even more so when Sherlock was drawn forcibly into the exchange, to which he would mumble out occasional: 'Oh's or 'I see's. Completely uninterested. Just like he was now.

"Ladies first!" The Escort shouted suddenly, and Sherlock roused himself halfway out of his musings as he turned with barely the smallest hint of interest. "Any volunteers?" The member of the Capitol asked in a booming voice. But there was no response. There hardly ever was. The crowd of boys around him were still tense, waiting for their turn. But each girl gathered there drew a sharp intake of breath as the Escort's hand slipped into the glass bowl containing the slips of paper that would ultimately decide at least one person's fate if not more. The Escort took their time, a grin on their face as they rummaged through the small leaflets. And finally they withdrew a slip.

They unfolded it. Raised it up to their face. Narrowed their eyes against the sun. And finally leaned over to announce the name over the microphone. It boomed around the suddenly-silent area, and Sherlock looked over the women in attempt to see who it was as their name was called.

"Mary Morstan." The Escort boomed happily.

At first, nobody said anything. Nobody reacted or even moved a muscle. No parents cried out and no siblings wailed aloud. And then from the crowd out stepped out the girl that Sherlock had almost run into earlier. She had cropped, short blonde hair, and she wore a rather simple dress. She seemed…rather simple in all entirety. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, trying to remember if he had even seen her before now. But all he could remember of her was that he had run into her and she liked cats.

She made her way up to stand beside the Escort, and they beamed at her willingness to walked up the steps. And truly, she was willing. Her face was completely blank as she stood with her hands clasped in front of her, and Sherlock wondered if there was a reason for her quietness. Usually Tributes were prone to crying or calling out bursts of pleads as they were carted off from their just-as-loud family. Now…it was nothing. How odd.

After a long bout of silence, in which Mary Morstan stood staring ahead and not saying a word, the Escort moved on to the boys' glass chamber. Sherlock let his gaze linger on Mary, not paying any mind as the person asked for volunteers once more for the boys. The girl was interesting in her own way, and Sherlock was oblivious to anything else as he looked at her attentively. She didn't seem younger than him, maybe a little bit older, but certainly not the same age. He could tell that she was clever, that much was certain. She was shortsighted, and she had the same light in her eye that a romantic held continuously. She had a scar on her right side, probably from something being removed, which led him to wonder whether or not it was a case with her appendix, which also led to him to guessing that-

"Sherlock Holmes."

The entire crowd hushed as the name 'Holmes' echoed across the clearing. Sherlock didn't notice at first, too busy with looking over the new Tribute with interest. But as all eyes went down to him, and more than one choking cry reached his ears, he realized what had happened. The echo of his own name sounded in his ears and all blood rushed down to his feet as his face paled considerably. He made absolutely no move to make his way to the stage, shock and confusion catching him off guard as he stood stock-still.

His name…? His name? His name was called? When he didn't move, and when nobody else made a move to claim their spot as 'Sherlock', the Escort called out again. "Sherlock Holmes!" They called, the fourteen-year-old blinking rapidly. It was like he had been handed an equation that had no possible answer. "Sherlock Holmes? Where is our newest Tribute from District Three?" They asked pleasantly.

The crowd started to part around him, and he found himself standing alone in a matter of seconds. He felt naked and small, and almost robotically, he started to shuffle his way up to the stage. He didn't have friends who would cry out for him to come back. He didn't have a lot of people to do that in the first place. But, beneath the roaring that was in his ears, he could hear his mother calling out his name from where she stood with the other parents, who were trying their best to console her as she watched her fourteen-year-old son trudge their way up to their death. Sherlock's father, who was already on stage, looked absolutely horrified as he watched his son pace over to him. There was a hint of boiling rage there as well, which was getting stronger and stronger with each step Sherlock took.

His name was only in the drawing three times. Three times. Three times…

"Stop!" A sudden scream ripped its way through the crowd, and Sherlock was roused out of his shocked stupor at the cry. The boy turned, realizing that his hands were shaking as he had one foot on the bottom step. The Escort had been beckoning him eagerly— he was already taking such a long time in getting up there in the first place. And the girl, Mary Morstan, was watching him intently from behind the Capitol member. But everyone turned to look in the direction of the scream once it made itself known.

Sherlock shuffled backwards, caught off-guard and nearly falling as he recognized the figure shoving their way through the crowd. "Stop!" Mycroft screamed again, his voice the loudest that Sherlock had ever heard it before. Peacekeepers rushed forward as they realized that a conflict was brewing, and Sherlock stiffened at the very idea. But Mycroft was not halted. "Stop! He can't go! He can't! I volunteer! I volunteer as Tribute in his place!"

Sherlock could have been slapped across the face and have the same reaction as he did when the frantic words registered in his mind. Volunteer? Hardly anybody volunteered! He jerked, making a move to double back. "Mycroft-" His words were cut off as one of the Peacekeepers grabbed at his wrist, pulling him backwards and back up the steps to the stage. Sherlock stumbled, letting out a yell as he was handled. It wasn't forceful yet, but it held the potential to become such. "Mycroft!" Sherlock snapped, tugging against the hold on his arm as his brother was snatched back by guards as well. "You-"

Their mother was beside herself by now— the Holmes family was making quite the show out of themselves as all eyes trained onto them three. The Mayor was rigid where he stood on the stage, tensed but unable to move as he made do with just standing up from his chair. The Victor, the one who's name started with some sort of 'G' sound, watched with a silent, blank face. The Escort spoke up, cheery as ever. "I'm sorry!" They piped, actually starting to sound a tad nervous at the scene. "We've already asked for volunteers, and nobody made themselves known!" They trilled out a small laugh, as if the situation was ironic. "Please take your place again!"

"I volunteer!" Mycroft reeled, completely disregarding the member's words even as he was being pulled back. "He's just a kid! You can't expect him to do anything!" Sherlock stumbled, slipping over the last step as the Peacekeeper carted him backwards. "His name was only entered three times; mine was entered seven! And what does it matter, anyway? I volunteer; it shouldn't matter that I didn't do it early enough! I'm volunteering!"

"Whoops; I'm so sorry." The Capitol Member beams, relentless in their cheer as Mycroft is shouldered back into the crowd. Sherlock wore an incredulous expression. What was happening? His name was only entered three times into the thousand other names inside, and yet it had been picked. His brother spent his free time scaring him with ghost stories and reprimanding him for the most pointless things, and yet here he was pleading to be taken instead of him. And now he was expected to represent District Three in the Hunger Games. It couldn't be happening. Nothing that was going on could be happening. "But rules are rules." The Member pointed out fairly. "Without rules there would be absolutely nothing!

"So!" They went on in a snippy fashion. They turned, pointing over to Mayor Holmes a little expectantly. The Peacekeeper released his hold on Sherlock, and the boy found himself standing on the other side of the Capitol Escort, opposite of Mary. He turned, looking at his father with a stunned expression, his mind reeling. He couldn't be chosen for the Hunger Games— he wasn't qualified for any sort of thing along that line. Their District wasn't even like the first two, they weren't trained from birth for this at all, none of them were! And Sherlock was the least qualified out of _everyone_!

His father looked just as shocked. The crowd was mumbling softly to one another, and there was a specific note of sympathy and grief, only heightened at Mycroft's outburst. His older brother had taken to standing back in the crowd, and yet every joint and limb was locked tightly, and he looked suddenly desperate as he stared at his younger brother on the stage. Usually he was a blank slate, wiped clean of any and all emotion. Yet now he was quite the opposite. His entire family was as Sherlock heard his mother call out his name again.

"Mayor Holmes." The Escort said, voice a little sharper now as they snapped. His father was still locking gazes with his son. "Aren't you supposed to finish this?" They prompted, words barbed now as they nodded over to the cameras that were trained in their direction. The Capitol had no time for delays. And this certainly was a big one already. Any longer and they would have a very severe issue on their hands.

His father turned slowly to look at the Escort, taking a moment as if to make sense of the words. But then he walked forward stiffly, pausing before dipping his head in something akin to respect at the two teenagers in front of him. Sherlock stiffened, trying to calculate the exact percentage of chance he'd had to have his name called. It was entirely impossible; this was just some sort of trick. There were a million names and for one of his three to have been-

While his muddled and haywire thoughts went wild in his mind, Sherlock missed his father's ending of the Treaty of Treason. And when he finally came to, and realized that no amount of math or calculation would solve the problem already handed to him, his father was looking at him sorrowfully. "The two reaping winners will now shake hands." He managed, his voice apologetic and strained as he tried not to look at his son too pointedly. Sherlock's breathing had gotten away from him now, and he turned to look over to the right with a confused expression.

Mary complied easily, just like she had to being reaped in the first place. The blonde turned, and her clever eyes were placed earnestly onto Sherlock's smaller frame. She stuck out one hand, only extending so far as to be in the very middle of the two of them. She was waiting for him to meet her there. And reluctantly, his arm painfully slow, Sherlock did. He reached over and fitted his hand inside of hers, the two of them moving up and down in small unison. The crowd was entirely silent now; his mother had stopped yelling and Mycroft had fallen silent as well.

Sherlock found himself locking eyes with Mary.

At the other District Three Tribute.

And as Sherlock registered the fact that he was the other half of their District now, the anthem of Panem began to play overhead.

(~**~) (~**~) (~**~) (~**~)

A/N: Sorry for such long author's notes. But if you see that I changed the order of asking for volunteers and the stricter regulations that come along with that, then you'll see what exactly I meant by saying that I would 'change' things. Simple things such as that, but I did mean what I said before when I said I would strictly stay away from any and all scenes or ideas presented in the original book series of the Hunger Games.

I have a lot in store for this fanfiction, and other Tributes will be introduced in further chapters, including characters such as John Watson, Irene Adler, Jim Moriarty, and so on. I hope that I did well with this introductory chapter, and I hope that, if you wish to see a quick update and installment of Chapter two, you would leave a review and give me feedback on my work!

Thank you for reading and I hope to hear from you!


	2. Chapter 2

Not a second passed after the anthem drew to its close. Sherlock didn't have time to turn and even glance back at his father again before he was carted off the stage. Peacekeepers swarmed the pair of them, young boy and girl, and herded them like cattle into the big brick building all Tributes were required to flee after the reaping. Sherlock cringed at the heavy handling, a grimace on his face as he automatically tried to snap his arms back to himself. But the Peacekeeper's grip only tightened at the notion, and he fell into a reluctant, tense posture as he was pushed along. Tributes from District Three had never been daft enough to try and make a break for it before they could be pushed along like they were now. But many others had attempted the feat, and the punishment for running was severe enough to keep even a boy like Sherlock dutiful.

He tried to catch a glimpse of Mary Morstan. That had been her name, hadn't it? He'd no idea what could be gained from a shared look, and yet he realized that she was too far away anyway. Having entered the wide, expansive building already, the two Peacekeepers taking each of her elbows, were heading in the opposite direction that Sherlock was. He knew what was going on; or at least he had a good enough assumption. Tributes were always given an accumulated time of one hour to say goodbye to anyone willing to visit them. Whether it was the idea of bidding his mother and father farewell, or just the blatant idea that he was, in fact, a part of this year's Hunger Games, the boy's throat closed in on itself as he shuffled along.

The Peacekeepers holding onto him offered no words as they finally drew up to a door along the wall. One of many, and yet they opened just this one and merely waited for him to step inside. Sherlock paused a moment, bringing his arms back close to his sides as he looked from one clad-suited person to another. With such thick armor and helmets on, he'd no idea who had brought him here. Or who had pulled him onto the stage. Or who had pushed his brother back into the crowd when he called out for Sherlock. Was it a female? A woman that had sons or daughters of her own? Was it a male? Someone who returned to their family each night knowing that they did such things as this?

He stepped forward numbly, and as soon as his feet were over the threshold, the door slammed shut behind him, evoking yet another grimace to fall over his face. Pausing a moment, and letting silence grip the room in claw-like fingers, blue eyes scanned the room and surveyed it. It was thick and luxurious— a room that he would have enjoyed wholeheartedly under any other circumstance. The carpet was thick and held intricate designs that flowed and meshed together. There were no windows, and the wallpaper was covered in a dark purple color that only made the room seem dimmer. There were even bookshelves lining one end of the room, as if a Tribute might have the will to stop and pick up one during their one-hour stay here.

All in all, it was a widely overdone. Sherlock paced the edges of the room, one hand going out to brush lightly against the smooth wall. His feet sank into the carpet as he marched, and he tried to distract himself as he looked over every inch of the space. He tried to see whether or not he could tell what past Tributes had done in this very room, but it was impossible considering how properly it was cleaned afterwards. The room looked untouched, like it was some sort of showcase. Besides, the best bet was that any and all Tributes had broken down and cried in this room. It wasn't that hard of a guess to land on.

Finally, after Sherlock had completed his fifth lap around the room and was just considering opening up one of those books after all, the door opened. The brunette turned, blinking rapidly as he fixed his eyes on the entryway. There, just as expected, his mother and father stood. They were both beside themselves of course; that was to be expected as well. His father did a better job of hiding it; his eyes were grim and pained as he took in the sight of his son standing where other Tributes had before him, and he didn't wear his usual smile, or offer any kind of joke like he normally would. Though cheesy and often unfunny, Sherlock suddenly found himself wishing that he would tell one instead of just remaining silent.

His mother made her way into the room first, not even pausing to wait for her husband before going forward. Her eyes were bloodshot and pink, and each step conveyed a certain sense of strain and grief already. She made a small, almost comical noise in the back of her throat as she leaned down and wrapped Sherlock into a tight hug. It was bone-crushing and uncomfortable, but the fourteen-year-old made absolutely no move to try and duck out from her grasp. He just frowned, closing his eyes and pressing his forehead tightly against his mother's shoulder, which he just able to reach now.

"Oh, Sherlock…" His mother sighed, her voice husky and a little bit hoarse after its extensive use from before. She wrapped her arms tightly around his bony frame, pulling him even closer if that was even possible. "I'm so sorry, my little boy…" From the other side of the room, Sherlock's father stepped inside as well, shutting the door behind him quietly as he padded towards the two already inside. Sherlock didn't speak, and, just to fill the quiet, his mother began to murmur comforting words down to him almost reflexively. She leaned her head down, kissing the top of his head and mumbling the words down into his thick curls. "It'll be okay, it will. I promise, sweetie, it'll be fine. It will. You'll be absolutely fine. It'll go by fast, I promise you it will." Tears choked her words and started to slowly separate the repetitive phrases into little hiccups.

Sherlock wondered dimly what she meant by 'It'll go by fast.'

Nobody spoke for a long moment, not Sherlock and not his father. The air was just filled with his mother's small murmurings, the sound of half-concealed sobs, and meaningless, sweet nothings. Sherlock closed his eyes, finding himself completely immobile. Wrenching himself out of his mother's arms was the last thing on his mind, and yet he could feel the hour crumbling away like sand between his fingers. Finally he got himself to step backwards, the boy looking from his father to his mother as he tried to figure out something to say. But what could you say at a time like this?

"You'll be okay." His father said before the boy could think of anything all that impressive. Sherlock turned, blinking at the words and wondering whether or not he truly believed something like that. District Three wasn't a Career District, they weren't trained from birth to partake in these Games. They were trained from birth to invent and handle electricity and metal, not take a knife and stab through the person standing beside them. The most Sherlock knew about surviving was hiding, and that was just because it was the only game that Mycroft would play with him when he was younger.

Somehow he thought that 'hide-and-seek tag' wouldn't be such an impressive background for someone in the Games.

"You're smart; I know you are." His father said bracingly, reaching over and clapping a hand onto Sherlock's shoulder. The teen turned and looked down at the gesture, looking back up with a small frown. 'Wit beats Brawn' was a philosophy parents told their children to make them feel better. If it came down to it and a knife was tested against a brain, the knife would probably win by a landslide where these Games were concerned. Sponsors didn't like people like him, either. They liked brawny kids that had a good sense of humor and looked impressive when they fought. As if reading his mind, his father shook his head. "You'll be great, son. I know you will."

Sherlock offered a dry smile that didn't exactly reach his eyes.

He turned, glancing over to the wall and realizing that his time was almost up. Half of it had ticked away already, and it was just getting smaller and smaller now. The clock against the wall was a Grandfather Clock, big and pointed in its own right. He wondered if that was done on purpose. 'Let's get the biggest clock we can and put it in a room where everything that matters is time. They'll always be looking at the clock; it'll be great.' But he found that looking at the clock was better than looking at his parents head-on. So he stared at the ticking machine a little sorrowfully, speaking up for the first time since he'd gotten on stage. "Will you watch it?" He asked softly.

It really was a stupid question. The stupidest that Sherlock had ever asked, though Mycroft would probably beg to differ on that one. Everyone in the Districts were required to watch the Hunger Games; that was the point of all of this. Even children in schools would pause in their curriculum to gather around and watch the gore and suspense. Parents had to watch their children die, and siblings had to watch their siblings suffer each day. Sherlock wasn't really sure what happened to those who refused to watch it, his family always complied with the rather simple requirement. But he could tell that it probably wasn't all that nice of a penalty.

"Of course we will." His mother sniffed immediately. She reached over, grabbing the curl that always managed to get in his face and brushing it aside tenderly, as she always did. Sherlock's throat squeezed at the thought that it might be the last time that his mother that. He never thought much of it before. But now he realized that even the most trivial of things, even the most mundane, would never happen again. Not to him. "We'll make sure to watch you. We'll be-" She broke off a moment, having to stop and clear her throat as it closed in on her. She tried to cover up her mistake with a small smile, reaching up and brushing at her eyes. "We'll be right there." She promised.

His father offered his own grin as well. "We'll be rooting for you."

Sherlock couldn't bring himself to smile though. He couldn't even bring himself to fake one. He ducked his head, a small nod escaping him shakily. His eyes started to prick and burn, as if stuck with a thousand little needles, and he could already see his vision blurring bit by bit. He'd gotten up this morning entirely uninterested in every single little thing that passed his way. And now here he was standing only a few inches from his parents, in a room that never looked touched, and trying to search for something to say as his eyes filled up with tears.

His mother saw his reaction, reaching over and carding her fingers through his hair lovingly. She tilted her head to the side, looking agonized as she tucked one finger underneath his chin, pulling up gently and leveling their eyes to meet one another's. "I love you, Sherlock." She murmured, her tears spilling over and marking fresh tracks down her cheeks. "We both do. So much." She added, Sherlock's father nodding solemnly where he stood. "And absolutely nothing is going to change that, you know that, right? Nothing that happens from now on. Do you understand?"

Sherlock bit down on his lower lip briefly, sniffing and wincing at the pathetic noise that it caused. He opened his mouth, ready to reply with something that he hoped would convey his throughs just a little bit at least. He was never good at these sort of things. But before he could get out a syllable, the door opened again. Everyone in the room looks up, and faces fall as they realize that it is a Peacekeeper. Their time is up. And it had gone by so quickly.

The Peacekeeper is not patient, and they waved harshly at the mother and father, who hadn't moved yet. Sherlock's mother turned, bringing him close for yet another tight embrace. Sherlock didn't even wince this time at the uncomfortable force, reaching over himself and returning the gesture this time. "I love you." His mother repeated, her voice just as bracing as her hug. "I love you so much, don't forget that, no matter what you do. I love you so much." Sherlock listened intently, taking every word close to heart. Eventually the Peacekeepers had to come inside and 'escort' the couple out. Sherlock's mother still repeated her words though, relentless as she desperately needed to have her son know what he already did. And his father offered a small wave and a smile before the door closed on them.

If he felt numb before, it certainly did not account to what he was experiencing now. The teenager sat down on the too-stiff couch, posture straight and tense as he looked with dead eyes down at the ground. He drank in every detail around him, but he didn't see it. This was really happening. It wasn't a nightmare anymore; at least, it wasn't a nightmare that he could try and wake himself up from. It wasn't one that his mother could comfort away in the morning like she used to do when he was younger.

The next visitor was a shock. Firstly because it wasn't a human, but mostly because he was just surprised that they had managed to get him inside. When the door opened, a furry shape barreled inside, a barrage of yips and barks filling up the silence that the gloomy room seemed accustomed to having. Sherlock's neck snapped up at the noise, and he turned to look at the shape a heartbeat before it crashed squarely into him. He let out a surprised and elated noise, reaching up and wrapping his arms around the dog's neck. "Redbeard!" He shrieked, the dog's tail waving wildly at the mention of his name.

"What're you doing here?" Sherlock asked breathlessly, sitting himself up after realizing that he'd fallen from the chair mid-crash. He hardly even noticed it. The dog looked ecstatic to see his favorite person in the house, and it was almost refreshing to see someone who had no idea what was going on. A genuine smile wormed its way across Sherlock's lips. "Hey, boy." He whispered now, leaning over and pressing his forehead against the Irish Setter's head. "Did you sneak your way into here?" He mumbled, drawing back and feeling his eyes burn more as his smile turned a little sad. "You're such a clever boy." He managed weakly. "Who's a clever boy?"

Redbeard's tail thumped wildly again. 'Me! Me! I'm a clever boy!'

"Sherlock."

That voice again. Sherlock closed his eyes, hugging tight to Redbeard for a few seconds more. But he knew that just pausing a few simple seconds would be a large waste with the time he had left. So he looked up a little reluctantly, keeping his nose lowered down into Redbeard's familiar soft touch of fur. The dog stood obediently in front of Sherlock as he looked up at his older brother, not trying to wriggle away as he just sat down more comfortably. Sherlock's eyes narrowed a little bit as he remembered Mycroft's last actions, still confused at the proceedings and unsure of what to feel as he clashed gazes with the elder. He realized prematurely that tears had managed to track themselves down his cheeks, just like he had seen his mother's do. He reached up quickly, trying to shove aside the feeling gnawing at his chest. But it was easier said than done, and the young boy's shoulders shook a little bit as he attempted to rub his eyes as roughly as he could.

Mycroft stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him in a grand sweep. His eyes were steeled and heavily guarded, though Sherlock couldn't see as his hands were covering his eyes with a tight clasp. Mycroft's eyes narrowed at the sight of his younger brother on the floor, and his jaw locked backwards tightly as he spoke. "Stop." Sherlock tensed at the command, looking up with a surprised expression at first, as if he had forgotten that Mycroft was there in the first place.

Then, sadness was quickly replaced with anger. The usual feeling that Sherlock applied when looking at his brother. "Why did you even come?" He spat, malice alive in every inch of his voice. Redbeard shifted a little nervously at the sudden change in tone, leaning over and nosing Sherlock's neck imploringly. But Sherlock didn't even glance down at the animal. "If you came here to be a smart ass about it all, go ahead and leave." His teeth were on edge and he gnashed them together. "Shouldn't you be happy, anyway? You weren't picked." He looked away, cursing himself mentally at the childish tone he'd adopted. He reached up to dab at his eyes as fresh water squeezed out.

"I said stop." Mycroft reaffirmed himself flatly. Before Sherlock could get out anything else sharp and barbed, the older of the two strode forward. He knelt down quickly, Sherlock's grip on Redbeard tightening a little bit at the advance. But Mycroft paid absolutely no mind to the animal being there. He reached over, grabbing each of Sherlock's shoulders and suddenly shaking him hard. It was only once, but the force was enough to rattle the boy's brain for a moment.

He blinked rapidly, eyes widening as sadness and bitterness was replaced with awkward confusion. "What are you-"

"You need to stop crying." Mycroft snapped, eyes narrowed and boring into Sherlock's perplexed ones. The boy tried to find another sharp retort to return with this, but Mycroft was already going on before he could manage it. "From now on, you can't cry. You can't do anything like that. You can't miss us, and you can't want to go home. Because that's weakness. And if any of the other Tributes in this game see anything even similar to a weakness, they _will_ exploit it. They'll exploit you. You won't get any sponsors and you'll _die_. You won't stand a single chance."

Sherlock's mouth was halfway open for the duration of his brother's coaching. When he was over, or at least over with that one section, Sherlock spoke a little numbly, stuttering over his words. "I-I don't… I don't stand a chance in the first place." He fumbled, blue eyes wide with distress. His heart got the better of his mind, fueling his speech and shoving out words that he'd bottled back wisely beforehand. "There'll be Careers, Mycroft! I don't stand a chance against them! There will be people with more experience than me, and I can't even throw a knife in the right direction, much less have it hit someone! I'll be one of the youngest there, and nobody wants an ally that can't help himself! I don't stand a chance, Mycroft. I'll die in the first five minutes— just like every other Tribute that's gone in for District Three." He ducked his head. "I won't make it past the Cornucopia."

Mycroft shook him again, sending the boy's teeth rattling inside of his skull. "Stop." Mycroft repeated forcefully. "You have a chance, Sherlock. What is this?" He asked slowly, as if he were talking to someone much more younger than him than Sherlock really was. He started to search for some kind of clever answer, for Mycroft wouldn't ask such a pointless question as that. But the older one pushed forth himself. "It's the Hunger Games, Sherlock." He said in a monotone voice. "And that's all it is. It's all just one big game, right?" Sherlock gave a hesitant nod. "And you can make it out to be the winner, if you just play the game the correct way."

"…But I'm not-"

"You're nothing _right now_." Mycroft said, putting stress on the last two words. "But you can make yourself out to be something big. If you just focus." At the boy's confused look, Mycroft shook him again. By now Sherlock was getting dizzy. "Listen to me. If you want to get out of this alive, then you need to take my advice. You can't take care of yourself? _Learn to_. You can't throw a knife? _Learn to. _You don't have any strategy? _Make one now_. And if people don't give you allies, that's fine. What happens to allies eventually, Sherlock?"

Again, he was prompting for his own answer. This time Sherlock gave it punctually. "They end up killing each other." He stammered wildly, trying to keep up with the sudden dynamic change.

"That's right." Mycroft said in grim confirmation. "You don't need to focus on allies, Sherlock, you need to focus on Sponsors. And you need to work on getting them."

The question was out before Sherlock could stop it. "Can you be one of my Sponsors?" He asked, blue eyes wide as he searched his brother's face. Mycroft knew too much about this. Rather than Sherlock, who took the days of the Reaping with apparent dismissal and just counted the hours until the day would be over, Mycroft took in the possibility that he might be picked and drafted. He had everything researched, watching each game carefully. He took down flaws and realized what others were doing wrong while Sherlock curled away from the screen and tucked his nose into a book whenever he could. Him going was a mistake, it was a mix-up. Mycroft should have been picked; not that it would have been any better for him or his parents. But he knew more about this. He knew how to play this game. He should be the one entering it.

Mycroft didn't answer him. He just let go of Sherlock's shoulders, the boy slumping as he was released. The hour was nearly over, and there was no doubt that in the next few minutes, or even seconds, the Peacekeeper would return again to shoo any visitors out of the elegant room. Mycroft shared his own thoughts, getting up to his feet and clearing his throat. "Don't cry anymore." He said instead, looking at his younger brother almost sternly with the order. Sherlock gave a sparse nod, pushing up from the thick carpet and getting up to his feet as well. Redbeard circled his legs happily, brushing against him and nosing him repeatedly, as if to entice him to play. But all Sherlock did was let his hand rest on the animal's head longingly.

"…You brought him?" Sherlock asked, rather pointlessly. Just to fill the void of silence.

"Of course I did." Mycroft answered in a reserved fashion.

Sherlock nodded. As good a 'thank-you' as any.

As expected, the Peacekeeper returned for yet another banishment. Sherlock glanced at the wall and realized that the hour was indeed up. He looked back down, swallowing thickly as he leaned down to hug Redbeard one last time. But he remembered Mycroft's advice, and refused to break so early into it. So he sucked in a deep breath, straightening and looking over at Mycroft, shaking his head firmly. "Take care of Redbeard for me." He said. He didn't know Mycroft's thoughts on the animal, but that didn't matter anymore. "Don't let him…" His words trailed off as he felt a surge of useless affection for the dog.

Mycroft didn't reply. He didn't even nod, either. He just leaned down and grabbed the Irish Setter's scruff, leading him away with a gentle sort of tug. The dog looped away easily, and Sherlock swallowed back pain again as he watched virtually his only friend prance ahead and leave him behind, without even really knowing it. The Peacekeeper followed the thing with an irritated scowl, and for the first time Sherlock wondered how in the world Mycroft had managed to bring in the animal in the first place. He wasn't sure whether or not any of the Capitol people would appreciate it.

"Mycroft." Sherlock said hesitantly as his brother started to turn back to follow Redbeard out as well. The eighteen-year-old twisted back at this, expectant eyes resting on him as he didn't make a move to speak. He coughed again, shifting on the carpet and letting his feet sink into the plush rhythmically. "Why did you offer?" He mumbled out of the corner of his mouth, confusion battling through his eyes once again. When Mycroft didn't speak, he pressed more. "Why did you volunteer? It was too late, they wouldn't have taken you anyway."

"I know that." Mycroft said, stand-offish.

"So why did you even try?" Sherlock asked again, clarifying his words.

The Peacekeeper came back in. Snapped at Mycroft to hurry. If he prolonged the leave any longer, they would remove him forcefully, just like they had pushed him back into the crowd during the Reaping. Mycroft shook his head, a small movement that was barely noticeable. "Focus, Sherlock." He said, repeating his advice from earlier as he restated the words. "And please. Don't do anything stupid."

Those were the last words spoken, and pretty soon, without even a hint of 'goodbye', Sherlock found himself alone in the refined room once again, the slam of the door echoing in his ears.

(~**~) (~**~) (~**~) (~**~)

The flash of cameras blinded him, and the yells and shouts of reporters were enough to deaf him as well. Sherlock stood at the Train Station, being escorted through the crowd of reporters and towards the train that was waiting to take them straight to the Capitol. The ride there had been short and void of any sound at all, save for the rev of the engine; and now, being overloaded with such sensory details, Sherlock fought not to grimace and cover his ears. He heard questions being aimed towards him, though he couldn't even manage to try and understand the words, they were too muddled with all of the other noises around him. Overhead, a screen was already broadcasting his image along with Mary's, who was walking quietly beside him, looking just as frazzled. Below their images were bold words that announced the feed was live.

'Because that's weakness. And if any of the other Tributes in this game see anything even similar to a weakness, they _will_ exploit it. They'll exploit you.' Mycroft's words rang in his head just as much as the snapping the cameras did, and Sherlock snuck a glance up at what was being recorded. He couldn't look upset. He couldn't look like he had just spent the last hour crying. If he did that from the very start, he might as well just be killed now.

Sucking in a deep breath and steeling himself, he forced his chin upwards, refusing to let his head hang from now on. If he was picked for these Games by some stupid twist of fate, then he was going to try his hardest to win them. Or at least not die within the first five minutes. A good a goal as any. He stared past the cameras pressing for his shot, and he did not react when the screen narrowed in on his face. He put his mouth into a thin line, and marched on, feeling Mary glance his way every so often.

He kept his cold front on even as they stopped and faced the crowd, allowing enough time for reporters to capture their pictures, and for the news to gather enough footage to satisfy those in the Capitol. His blue eyes were slightly narrowed against the light of the cameras, but his expression remained apathetic. Mary on the other hand was the complete opposite of what Sherlock was attempting to be. The blonde smiled wildly at the cameras when they trained themselves onto her, and she even had the nerve to offer a bashful wave every once and a while. Sherlock would have glared at her if he hadn't been trying to make it seem like he was oblivious to everything going on.

Finally, the train's door opened, and they got on. And as the doors closed behind them and shut off all the rampant noise effectively, Sherlock gave a small sigh of relief. The train started moving a heartbeat after the doors closed, and Sherlock looked over to the window, watching as it pulled away from the Station. It wasn't as fast as the other Trains that held Tributes from Districts such as District 11 or 12. But that was just because they were so much closer than they were to the actual Capitol. His father had spoken about these trains on many occasions before, and Sherlock could have probably ranted about its inner workings and machinery for far too long.

He stood by the window, rooting his feet there and blinking as he watched with a small frown. His District was melting away quickly, even against its massive size and stature. The train was going too fast for his taste, and Sherlock felt yet another tug in his chest at the thought of leaving home for so long. And probably not returning. Despite Mycroft's 'touching pep-talk' before he had left, he still had little to no hope of making it through this ordeal. Looking apathetic and uncaring was easy; he did that on a daily basis. But appearing likable to Sponsors and gaining popularity was another thing. Maybe if he worked on his survival skills enough he could make it out okay without that sort of help…he certainly wasn't about to consider finding allies. Mycroft was right; they only ended up killing each other.

He turned, realizing that Mary had already disappeared. But Sherlock found no pity in the idea. Instead, he turned and went down the hall, to where his own room would be. The idea of a shower and a change of clothes was rather embracing right now, and he figured that there wouldn't be much harm in doing such. After all, considering the fact that he was supposed to die in a little more than a few days, they might as well allow him such simple pleasures.

(~**~) (~**~) (~**~) (~**~)

Sherlock didn't particularly want to go down to eat dinner. When it was called, he merely stayed where he was. He didn't feel like going down and eating alongside the girl he would eventually have to kill or be killed by. Or watch being killed, or have her think to herself later: 'Well that's just great; the other kid died so now it's just up to me for my District.' And he certainly didn't want to sit by the Capitol Member who had so rudely turned down Mycroft's attempt at saving him. No. He didn't want any of that stuff. So he just sat on his bed, staring out the window at the countryside that flashed by.

But his plan reached a snag as there was a knock at his door. He turned, ready to snap at whoever it was to leave. But whoever it was didn't wait for a call back, opening the door themselves and peering into the room. They smiled pleasantly at Sherlock as their eyes landed on him, and the boy's shoulders sagged rather obviously as he realized that it was the Capitol Member from before. What was her name? But then again, it didn't matter much anyway. He didn't even know his now-mentor's name— why bother learning this one's, either?

"Go away." He sighed, turning his head pointedly away from her.

The Member frowned, looking irritated now that he wasn't looking her way. But when she spoke, her voice was upbeat and high, like everyone's from the Capitol was. "Sherlock Holmes." She trilled, the boy gnashing his teeth together at the fact that she used his name. "It's time for dinner." Still, he didn't move. Eating never really was a concern at the forefront for him; he would much rather have a book instead. Something in the back of his mind told him that he would probably be better off eating when he could, but he shrugged it off, as he did most things. Why start now when he wasn't going to be getting food in a time's course? "You're expected." The Member went on. "You don't want to disappoint those waiting."

"I don't _know_ anyone out there." Sherlock sighed again, impatient. "If anybody is waiting out there for me, I would be very surprised."

"Please come down to dinner." The Capitol Member pressed again.

"Please get out of my room." Sherlock countered lazily.

"I am not asking again-"

"Well, good. Then I won't have to refuse again."

The Member was pink in the face now. She stepped backwards, to the side, leaving a space for Sherlock to pass through. "Out." She snapped suddenly, with force enough to have Sherlock turn in frank surprise. She looked at him reproachfully, one eyebrow raised as the woman jabbed a finger out into the hallway. "You are going to have dinner and you are going to like it. Everyone in the Capitol will be watching our team and I will be _very _cross if they see anything but perfection from us!"

Sherlock blinked rapidly, his nose scrunching up as he leaned forward a bit. "Our 'team?'" He scoffed. "Since when are we a-"

"Dinner!" The woman all but yelled.

At the sudden shriek, Sherlock snapped up to his feet, eyes wide as he looked a little angry now. Nevertheless, he sidled over, scowling as he retreated out from the confines of his room and out into the hall. The woman returned his barbed look with her own, and he heard her immediately start to trail behind him once he started down the hall. It wasn't a long trip down to the dining cart, but it was certainly far longer than Sherlock would have liked. The young boy burned underneath his skin at the way that he had been ordered, and by somebody who's very name escaped him! It seemed like even now, drafted into the Games and so far from his own District, he was still looked down on.

Emerging into the room, Sherlock immediately realized that the food was as lavish as the train itself. There was hardly room for anybody to sit at the table, let along eat everything on it. There were bowls of soup and plates of turkey, along with other things Sherlock had never even seen before, served only to the finest of people in the Capitol. The smells emitting from it was already enough to entice the boy forward, despite the fact that normally food did not appeal to him. Reluctantly, he looked over at the seats assembled, wondering where to sit.

The Capitol Member took their own seat, already having picked their share of the food. Though rather than digging in at once, they instead looked down, slipping out something small from a concealed pocket in their dress. Small and rectangular. Sherlock leaned precariously to the side in an attempt to see, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes in confusion at the sight that met him. It was a phone. Why on earth would a person from the Capitol find enjoyment in something as trivial as a phone? With all the technology that they now had at their disposal thanks to the innovative works of people such as his own parents, why would-

"Glad to see you managed to get him out, Anthea." It was the man that Sherlock didn't know the name of. He turned as he spoke, immediately souring as he realized that the gray-haired man had a smile on his face, as if he found something amusing. And it only widened even more at the expression Sherlock wore across his features. "I knew you wouldn't want to come down." The Mentor said, snickering privately to himself as he looked back down at his food. He picked up his fork, stabbing through some slice of meat Sherlock wasn't that interested to define.

"And how did you know that?" Sherlock asked, finding his voice drawn and reserved.

The man shrugged one shoulder. "Because that's the same thing I did when I got ?Reaped."

The young boy stilled at this, expression clouding as he looked at the man with a small frown. But he didn't say anything further on the matter, and eventually Sherlock realized that he was the only one standing. He turned, trying to find some place where he could sit a space away from anyone else. But there were only a set number of chairs, and there was only one empty one around the whole table. Resigning himself and thinking that at least the chairs weren't too close to one another, he took the seat in between the unnamed Mentor, and Mary Morstan. If he remembered her name correctly.

The room fell silent for a few moments, and Sherlock found himself taking one of the richest of the foods that were offered. Maybe not such a smart idea, but he had been dragged out here in the first place. Glancing over to the side in passing, he stopped short as he spotted a small thing lying on the ground next to Mary's chair. He blanched a moment, looking up and igniting conversation for once. "Where did you get that?" He asked. The blonde started as he aimed the question at her, turning and looking over with a puzzled look. When he realized she'd no idea what he was referring to, he pointed down at the thing on the floor. "The book. Where did you get it?"

"Oh." The girl said in a small touch of surprise. "Oh; I got it from that room. From before." She explained. Her eyes were slightly widened as she looked at Sherlock, and he realized that the certain touch that rounded out her eyes was innocence. In a manner of speaking, at least. But he wondered if that was at all true. He remembered the way she had smiled and waved bashfully at the cameras before. He wondered if that was really her. Or whether or not it was all an act. He'd seen it happen before as a strategy during the Games. Someone would appear so innocent and cute during the interviews and styling, and then as soon as the game starts they immediately start mass producing havoc and killing everyone in sight. "I was reading it and it was interesting. But I had to leave, so…I just took it with me." She offered a shrug. "They won't miss it."

"No, they probably won't." Sherlock remembered the stack of seemingly untouched books that lined the shelves in his own room. But how far could you read a story to have it become interesting enough to steal it? And he was more than sure without even reading the title that it was a romance novel. There wasn't any other kind of book she would find interesting, it seemed to him. He turned back to his food. "You can't really read that far in a few minutes though." He said dismissively.

Mary turned to her own food. "Well, I had an hour." She said, as if it were no big deal.

Sherlock blinked in faint surprise. "An hour? You spent the entire hour reading?" He asked incredulously. She gave a small nod. "You didn't have any visitors?" She shook her head. "At all?" Still, she just shook her head a second time. Sherlock frowned, but at least he was able to confirm one of his deductions at least. That was why there had been absolutely no noise at all when Mary's name had been called. He suspected something along the lines of no relatives or friends, but he hadn't quite been able to see why that was. Curiosity got the better of him, and he ignited conversation again. "So how did you live without any sort of-"

Mary cut him off, looking over past Sherlock to the Mentor. Sherlock stiffened with a little bit of anger at the thought of being ignored. But in hindsight, maybe it wasn't the best kind of question to ask during a first impression sort of thing. "So what are the other Tributes like, Greg?" She asked. Sherlock could tell by the glint in her eye that the question wasn't based so much on interest, as it was just her wishing to change the subject off from herself. But anyway, the question was something that was bound to come up some point or another so there wasn't much fault to it. Plus the sooner Sherlock could find out about what he was up against, the better off everything might be able to-

Wait a minute…..

Greg?

What kind of name was Greg?


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock had leaned forward, interest in his mentor's answer to Mary's question distracting him from the revelation off a rather odd name. Granted, someone with a name such as his would be rather hypocritical in their stance on 'strange' names, yet the boy simply couldn't understand why a mother —if she was a caring sort— would look at their new baby and pick a name as awkward and odd as 'Greg.' Nevertheless, this 'Greg' was their mentor and sitting across from them at the table, staring at the two teenagers whose lives were just as much to be held as his silverware was right now.

The man sighed reluctantly, clearing his throat in a small cough as he looked from the boy to the girl. Mary was sitting straight now, her back a perfect line as her eyes narrowed a little bit in confusion. Obviously, though whether or not her question had originated in such a way, she was far keener on finding the answer than Sherlock was, who merely stared in the man's direction with an empathetic look. Even Anthea looked up from whatever she was doing, though her interest was in the more innocent side as she sat almost comfortably in the silence that was weighing over their group.

Eventually, rather than merely telling the pair, the teenagers' mentor led them into another room, turning on the television mounted on the opposite wall and taking a seat. Mary had glanced at Sherlock a little questioningly, raising one of her eyebrows as she shifted her weight back and forth. Sherlock noticed the subtle bite down on her lower lip as she searched his gaze and guessed that such a thing was most likely a bad habit; one she'd had for a while now considering that part of her lip was a trifle more pink than the rest of it.

He'd stood. Anthea, Lestrade, and Mary all sat on either the couch or some of the plush chairs that were scattered in the sitting room. The television had a recap of the Reapings playing in loop, as it always did each time the first official night of the Hunger Games began. Sherlock had straightened with a certain sense of intensity as his eyes narrowed a bit. The logo of Panem flashed onscreen, and the teenager realized that they would be going in order of Districts, as was per the norm of these things.

District One. One of the Career Districts. Sherlock's hands had found themselves curling in tightly, his fingernails digging into his palms with a sharp sting. These would be his biggest competitors. After all, District Three had a wonderful streak of being killed by Careers in the first five minutes after Greg had won. Mycroft's words and pieces of advice had bounced back and forth in his skull, and the young boy knew that whether or not he thought himself to be ready for this competition, he had better start to play the game.

District One had a male volunteer, as it normally did. A well-dressed young man, a little bit older than Sherlock, whose name was proudly announced over the microphone along with a congratulations of his bravery in putting himself forward so willingly. His name was Jim Moriarty. The girl was called, not offered, yet it seemed of no inconvenience for the young woman as she traipsed her way up the steps to stand alongside Jim. She was almost like Mary, Sherlock had thought as he remembered her just-as drawn walk up to her fate. Only this girl was different, as she had many a person call after her. Sherlock had almost felt surprised at the fact that nobody had offered themselves in the place of Irene Adler.

District Two, the overall biggest supporters of the Capitol and also a Career District, obviously had volunteers. Two teenagers, a boy a girl. The boy was Sherlock's age, and he looked the part, quite frankly. Phillip Anderson was short and skinny; Sherlock had wondered whether or not he was taller himself, through it was too much effort to try and figure out through the television screen. And the other was a girl, a little older in her age most likely. Her name was Sally Donavon, and though nobody called after her in an attempt to draw her back in that pointless way families did, she certainly didn't seem to mind. At all, in fact. The girl looked mean and scathing as she stood on the stage, and oddly enough, Sherlock felt the most uneasy so far at the looks of this one.

District Three was next, and Sherlock watched the scenes that had unfolded there unfold yet again. He saw Mary's odd walk up to the stage, an event that bugged him immensely for a reason he couldn't really pin down. And he watched in puzzlement yet again as Mycroft called after him once his name was called, and how he fought to get closer through the Peacekeepers. Frankly, Sherlock was in the middle of cursing himself mentally over the details of when his name was called. He'd not been paying attention as his gaze was fixed on Mary— a detail that he hoped the girl missed in case she drew any illogical conclusions. But when the moment of dawning came over him, it was painfully obvious, and Sherlock scowled at the dumbfounded expression on his face. He looked completely idiotic on the camera.

The rest of the competitors had been filed in the boy's extensive memory, the teenager taking as many mental notes as he could on the few that stood out to him. The other Careers from District Four were a pair named Sebastian Moran and Janine Hawkins. District Seven was home to Sarah Sawyer and Mike Stamford. District Five was Jonathan Small and Kitty Riley. Many names and many faces were shown over the screen, and Sherlock took care to file each one. Though with the barrier of a screen in between him and the person in question, it was less than stellar to try and gather any information on the others. He'd decided that it would have to wait until later.

That was it. Lestrade had turned the television off at the closing of District Twelve, in which yet another boy and girl had been drawn into the Hunger Games. A little, petite-looking girl that Sherlock decided would last five minutes exactly— a girl named Molly Hooper. The other looked as if he stood a fair chance, which was all the more displeasing for Sherlock. The male's name was John Watson, a rather mundane name that matched the obscenely mundane-looking District in the backdrop behind them. It was an easy thing to let slip the mind as he had moved onto much more pressing matters.

"So what now?" He'd asked, speaking up yet again. Mary looked over at him from where she had taken her own seat, on the cushion separate from Lestrade as she clasped her hands tightly in her lap. Her clever eyes trained themselves onto Sherlock and the boy tried to forget her piercing eyes as they bored a hole into his frame. Her look was starting to get to him; she was starting to get to him in general. He didn't know whether it was the fact that at least one them was going to be dead in a week, or that they just hadn't gotten acquainted themselves yet, he didn't have the patience to figure at that moment. Lestrade had looked down at him a little blankly, so he pushed: "Shouldn't you be advising us on what we should do now?" He prompted, his voice having adopted a dripping tone as he raised his eyebrows a little impatiently at the older man.

It was too early. That had been the man's excuse that night, and one of the last words spoken before they all retired to their separate corners. Lestrade told them that it was much too soon to try and find out things about them, and that such things could only be drawn to a satisfying conclusion after starting training at the Capitol. He stepped back and took in both the sight of Sherlock and Mary, telling them that they had to take things slowly. That it wasn't good to try and jump into things head first when it came to these Games. It was stupid advice, and Sherlock naturally started to open his mouth to say so, but Lestrade was already leaving. This only made Sherlock flare more at the thought that he so easily departed from what were considered _his _responsibilities now— if they kept going like this, they wouldn't make it past the Cornucopia!

But Lestrade had left. Anthea too, trailing after him. Now that she wasn't on camera and expected to be paying attention and being active in discussion, her head was ducked down to look at the screen of her phone. She must have practice with moving as such, because she had made a straight beeline down to her room, not even having to look up as she went back to her room. The two kids had been left in the sitting room, the roar of the train background noise as Sherlock scowled after the two adults.

Mary had cleared her throat, getting up to her feet and starting to make some sort of effort to hold conversation. After all, ever since they had gotten here, they hadn't really exchanged more than three sentences back and forth. But before she could do such a thing, Sherlock's temper had gotten the better of him again and he had turned away, retreating to the confines of his own room as well. He didn't experience any sort of regret for the crestfallen look that must have passed over Mary's face behind his back. After all, he remembered Mycroft's prompting question clearly.

_What happens to allies eventually, Sherlock?_

That left him to where he was now, sitting on the edge of a rather cold table and gripping its edge in an attempt to try and distract himself from what was going on. He'd been attacked. Well, it might be a touch dramatic to claim it as an assault, considering that the treatment he'd just gotten wouldn't be akin to the type he'd get in the arena. But it was just as bad in his opinion at the moment, and he gave a disgruntled huff as he looked over to the clock on the wall for about the millionth time.

He'd been at the Remake Center for ages. His 'attackers' had been a team of stylists, who mostly concerned themselves with tearing off the topmost skin of his legs and arms, the entire group determined to leave him completely hairless save for the mop of curls on his head. His skin was a touch pink now after all its abuse, and he felt cold and bare as he sat without any clothes on. Apparently he hadn't been 'allowed' to wear the clothes he'd arrived in; instead he was forced to sit in an empty room after ages of 'stylization' for someone who was certainly taking their time in arriving. He was supposed just get an outfit to wear for tonight. Was it so hard to just stop by and pick something up and step out? Call out a 'Thank-you' and be on his way?

To his surprise, his Stylist wasn't a man like he'd expected. Instead it was a woman, rather young though obviously much older than the fourteen-year-old. Late twenties or early thirties at best, he decided. She strode into the room, not even glancing twice at the bare teenager with slightly flamed skin sitting in the room, instead going over and setting all of her things down and arranging them neatly.

Sherlock surveyed her quickly, though there wasn't much to tell. She was of course just like any other Capitol Member. She had light auburn hair that was done up in a large, over-the-top bun on her head. She wore a rather bright-looking outfit, and Sherlock grimaced a little as he wondered if the mesh of colors would burn his retina. He certainly hoped that she had a better fashion sense when it came to him. Her makeup was on-point, however pasty or gaudy it came across. Everything about her was perfect, he figured, as he looked her up and down a bit guardedly. Somehow, the thought alone made the boy bristle.

She turned, clapping her hands together in a sudden snap that caused the teenager to go stiff with surprise. "Sherlock Holmes." The woman greeted warmly, as if she already knew him personally. Which was quite the opposite of course; after leaving the train and going separate ways with Mary, all that Sherlock had encountered were strangers. Strangers that clearly did not grasp the concept of: 'personal space' or 'personal bubbles.' His had been popped a million times and it was just after lunch. "Delighted to see you!" The woman trilled, and the fourteen-year-old had to hold himself back from a scathing comment in return.

Instead he gave a subtle nod of the head, shifting to the side a bit as if to increase the distance between him and the just-arrived woman. If she noticed the small movement, she gave no heed, merely marching forward and tapping her chin with a thoughtful look on her face. Sherlock blew out his cheeks a little bit, looking off to the side and wondering how long these things lasted. The parade wasn't too far off— after this, he was supposed to report back to the starting line promptly. It couldn't be that long…

"You can put your clothes back on." The woman said after a few more minutes of tense silence. She could hardly finish her words before Sherlock turned quickly, dressing with more speed than he thought was possible as he yanked his shirts and pants onto his body. The woman watched him with the beginnings of a small smile, and Sherlock went beet red at the notion of humor, a sour look on his face as he remained standing. Which only caused the woman to let out a small laugh. "Greg told me you were difficult." She said, as if this was a mere fact of no importance.

It took Sherlock a second to remember who she was talking about. "Lestrade?" He asked, reaching down and fisting his hands in the bottom seam of his shirt. How in the world could Lestrade have already started to talk about him? He didn't even know him! How many people has the man rushed off to and ranted to about the new Tribute from District Three? The thought was enough to send Sherlock exploding in frustration with a display of his short temper. Such blatant display could cost him Sponsors, surely? Wasn't he supposed to be helping him? "He doesn't even know me!" He snapped.

Once again, the woman giggled. The sound of her laugh was starting to put Sherlock's teeth on edge. "Don't worry." She sighed, turning around and delving back to the other side of the room. Sherlock watched her go, his jaw locked backwards as she treated the matter in a frivolous way. "Greg just told me to keep my head around you." There was a note of relief in her voice, and Sherlock suddenly realized, as she opened the door opposite of him, that was he supposed to be following her. "I've known Greg for quite a few years; nothing really fazes him. I was surprised to hear that he got a Tribute that's out of the norm. At least for him. Frankly I was expecting something much worse."

"He doesn't even know me." Sherlock found himself repeating, running to catch up with her and shutting the door behind him as he trailed after. They were in a sort of dressing room now, and there was a plastic-clad bag that no doubt hung whatever he was supposed to wear tonight. The thought came with a sinking heart, and he sighed a little bit under his breath. But, no. He had to get his point across, as he always did. "I've barely held a single conversation with the man. It takes more than that to really understand a person, if you're like anybody else." He said, not even sure if the woman was paying attention to him anymore as he rattled on standing in the center of the room. "Maybe a total of four hours spent together would allow you to be able to build a firm basis on the person's habits or tendencies, but unless you really start to-"

"Greg has been doing this for a long time. He could tell." The woman sighed, cutting the boy off mid-sentence. Sherlock snapped his mouth closed, a little offended at the interruption. But he decided not to snap out for another time, albeit disgruntled at the decision. "I've known him these past few years, you know." No, Sherlock didn't. Of course. He wasn't the type of person to keep track of contestants, let along stylists or mentors. He gathered things that were interesting from the Games, such as the time that a girl from District One killed her rival mentally rather than physically. Or the time that the Hunger Games barely came out with a single Victor, after both remaining Tributes both fell down the same cliff trying to do the other one out. But names of stylists and prep teams? No.

"Humph." The boy offered a small grunt, turning and looking aimlessly around the room like he always did whenever he'd nothing else to do. "Can't say that the 'past few years' have been anything to speak about." He said without thinking. "Considering the fact that the last Games have always entailed the Tributes from District Three dying at the Cornucopia." Though he realized, as the words left his mouth, that he immediately regretted them. That pretty soon, he would be on that long list of names. As the thought occurred, his eyes flashed down to the ground and any and all snide comments died on his tongue.

"Well how do you think it feels to have your Tributes die on you so easily like that?" The woman sighed, going over to the plastic hanger, Sherlock looking up at her from the corner of his eyes. "It's always the same thing. The same deal. Everything happens the same way no matter how many flashy outfits I hand out and no matter how many hours that Greg spends with the kids. They always die in the first ten minutes, give or take." She huffed, a little bit pink in the face as she unzipped the bag in a harsher gesture than needed. "Every year. I never get to make that homecoming outfit."

She sounded angry. Furious and cross. Whether it was for her sake, for her unreachable goal of making more outfits for a newly-crowned Victor, or for the teenagers' sake of having died so early into things….Sherlock couldn't tell for once. Maybe it was a little bit of both, a mixture of the grievances. "The last Victor we had was when Greg was your age." The woman sighed. Sherlock stiffened at this, blinking rapidly. Lestrade was fourteen when he won the Games? It was something he didn't ask, he didn't even think of asking. But…he was his age? He opened his mouth to ask, his curiosity overtaking his interest in anything else as he suddenly found himself wanting to know more about the mentor that he's shared three or four words with. But the woman had already moved on. "I've got your outfit all ready. We've coordinated it."

The question died on his lips, and Sherlock tried not to show his disappointment at the shift in topics. Instead, very easily, he found a different question to ask. "What do you mean 'coordinated?'?" He asked, already not liking the word. He liked the clothes he had on now; maybe that was just because he was the one who picked them out though. But why couldn't he wear a vest and slacks up to the parade? The answer was simple: Sponsors would never look twice at him. But still, there was still a point in complaining about it. If only a little one. He hadn't done anything for himself since yesterday morning. He had followed people around, he had been treated like a child, and he was dying to read a book by now. Maybe he could steal the one Mary had. It's not like it would be hard. And it was harder to feeling grievance over committing a crime against someone you didn't know.

"Mary's stylist and I." The woman beamed, pleased as Sherlock apparently asked the question she had been hoping he would. "We planned out every inch of the fabric with you two. The pair of you will look completely dashing. Perfect models for District Three!" Sherlock soured with each and every word that passed this person's mouth. "You'll have to trust me on it now— it'll only make sense when you see what she's got on. But it'll look absolutely stunning on the parade route!" She stepped back, completely over her moodiness over the past Tributes now as she unveiled her project. And she was very proud of it, in fact. Her eyes had taken a whole new shimmer to them as she sidestepped to give him room to look.

But for all her excitement, Sherlock scowled at the sight. "Why can't I wear what I have on?" He demanded in a heightened voice that a child would use normally. It wasn't that he was one, despite the fact that he was nearly too young for this ordeal. Normally he didn't use the voice at all, save for when Mycroft started to bug him far too much and he ended up calling for Mother. Yet this was just as bad. On the rack, the outfit looked absolutely horrible. "It's nice enough."

The woman raised her eyebrows. "Do you want to make a good impression?" She snapped. It was obvious by her tone that she did not appreciate the whine in response to her clothes. She had probably expected more of a cheer, but Sherlock never was the one for hype. Sherlock scowled deeper in response, as a disgruntled yet silent 'Yes.' She nodded, turning and treating the fabric gently as she slipped it off of its hanger. "It'll look better on you." She relented after a second silence, turning over and beckoning Sherlock over to the large, grand mirror that was attached to the wall. He complied reluctantly. "And you'll understand when you see Mary."

He let out another 'Humph.' But, deciding that the woman looked fit to hit him over the head if he allowed any other dry comment about the suit, he changed tactics instead. "You never told me your name." He said, narrowing his eyes a bit as he looked over himself in the mirror. Skinny. A rather awkward-looking height. Little to no muscles whatsoever. A messy head of curls that never listened to him. He thought back to the other Tributes he saw on the television last night. Yep. He was officially not a threat.

The woman handed him the outfit, telling him to get dressed. Sherlock waited for her to leave the room. She didn't. So he gradually huffed out through his nose, deciding here wasn't much harm in things anymore since she walked in on him with absolutely no clothes on at all. He wriggled out of his shirt and pants, putting on the tailored outfit. It was a crisp suit, layers of clothes having to be put on as the boy dressed with care. His stylist had a very pleased look on her face as he dressed piece by piece, and as she watched eagerly, she answered his question. "My name is Kate." She replied neatly.

Kate. Hm.

Sherlock finally pieced together the arrangement, straightening up so that his back was in one long line. He looked at himself in the mirror a little reluctantly, eyes widening a little bit as he realized that he looked much better than he had thought he would. The suit fit him perfectly, another surprising factor, though he guessed with the Capitol he should have expected. His collared shirt was a dark gray, his outer suit a much more smoky kind of shade along with it. Kate marched forward once he'd managed to get most of it on himself, closing the clasps of his shirt with dark black buttons. The array of colors resembled something that Sherlock realized he was starting to recognize. And, thinking of his District, he was starting to guess on what Mary was modeling as well.

"Do you like it?" Kate pressed. Sherlock started to say something, but she cut him off with a sharp gasp. "Wait! Wait— one more piece!" He sobered, looking at the mirror and watching a crease went over his forehead gradually. What could he possibly have else to wear? He was already dressed head to two in the varying shades of gray and black, there wasn't else more he could do. Unless- "Here you are." Kate said, coming back and holding a small pile of more fabric in her arms.

Sherlock looked down at it and blinked in confusion. "A scarf?" He asked.

"Of course." When he made no move to reach for it, she sighed, leaning over and wrapping it around his neck snugly. She put it in a small knot, neat and practiced as she tucked the lower end inside the light gray vest over his shirt. He was already starting to grow warm underneath all the layers. But Kate looked unbothered by it all— hadn't she realized that it was too much considering the weather?

"Why would I need this when it's-?"

Kate shushed him before he could finish his words. Again. He could hardly get a full sentence out before she quieted him it seemed. "There." She drew back again, looking very much pleased with herself as she grabbed Sherlock's shoulders and steered him back to the mirror again. The scarf wasn't made of silk or satin like the rest of his ensemble, it was made out of soft and almost fluffy material. Though it was thin and small enough not to be too intrusive, with the fluffed and almost billowy look to the scarf, he knew instantly.

"I'm a cloud." He said, his voice a deadpanned tone as he looked just as blankly forward.

"You're a very handsome-looking one." Kate gushed, looking over his fluffy scarf, his smooth and very well-done suit. True the look was very striking, and once the meaning of his District was realized, people would probably be very impressed. He could get Sponsors. He could win over the crowd. Before he started talking, that is. But isn't that what Mycroft had said? To win over people and try and be the best he could? ….But he was a cloud!

"I'm a cloud." He repeated dumbly, forehead creasing. He couldn't tell if this was idiotic or brilliant.

Kate shrugged, tilting her head to the side. "It works for me." She commented.

Sherlock made a small noise in the back of his throat, as if in recognition. He reached up and fiddling with the scarf.

"Of course it works for you." He sighed.

(~**~) (~**~) (~**~) (~**~)

Sherlock and Kate depart down, out of their dressing room and to the lower level of the Remake Center. The smell of horses and stables reach Sherlock before the actual room does, and he realizes how close it is until the Opening Ceremony begins. The horses and their chariots are respectively lined up according to District Number, so it wasn't a long walk at all until they would get to theirs. Kate was rattling on about how much the crowd would love him and Mary together, and that they would hopefully be the stars of the night. She went on to talk about their Interview outfits, but Sherlock was hardly listening anymore.

They'd entered the room, being met with the first chariot in line— District One. A lump formed in the back of Sherlock's throat as he recognized the District with the most Victors. Usually it was always some of the Career Districts to win, considering they had trained from very young ages for this very ordeal. And, thinking back to the recap of the Reapings, Sherlock had to admit that the pair from District One were those he'd watched closely.

The pair was standing already in their chariots, an arm's length of distance between them, yet they were talking back and forth in hushed tones. It wasn't surprising. The Careers usually banded together in an alliance at the beginning the game. On the other hand, Sherlock was starting to become under the impression that he wouldn't have any allies at all for the duration of his time in the Arena. Irene Adler and Jim Moriarty, the names came quick as a whip now that the titles of Tributes actually mattered to him.

Jim Moriarty was wearing a bright white tuxedo, the opposite of Sherlock's cloudy-gray one. Crystals were embedded on the collar, and Sherlock was starting to wonder whether or not Kate was mistaken; their outfits looked just a brilliant if not more so than his own. Irene was wearing a much-too-tight looking dress that curved inwards and sloped away at the end to form a wide hourglass sort of feature. Every inch of the dress was hardened with crystals, and Irene's hair had been put up into a just-as-tight bun. She wore heavy eye shadow, and bright red lipstick to contrast. By the way that she was dressed, there was no doubting that the angle she was shooting for in order to win over Sponsors was very provocative.

Before he knew it, both of the Tributes stopped in their polite conversation, turning and looking down at him as he walked. Irene Adler pulled her lips into a tight line at the sight of him, and her eyes narrowed in just the smallest hint of interest as they went up and down his frame. Jim Moriarty, on the other hand, narrowed his eyes into small slits as their gazes met, and Sherlock wasn't really keen on figuring out the odd emotion that lay hidden behind the odd look.

That's when his eyes found the one part of their attire that he'd been lost on. They both wore crowns. Identical to the Victor's crown that was handed out to the survivor of the Hunger Games at the very end. Irene's was subtle, a small tiara wrapped around her bun. But Jim's was tall and magnificent, and as Sherlock's eyes flashed up to the piece, a small smirk wormed its way over the other's face. At Sherlock's long pause, Kate grabbed his shoulders and steered him on, looking a tad nervous as she did so.

"Are they allowed to do that?" Sherlock asked, forgetting to be quiet as Kate shushed him loudly. Huffing and lowering his voice, he asked again, though softer this time. "Are they allowed to wear something like that? Isn't there….I don't know…some kind of rule against it?" There weren't a lot of rules in the Hunger Games to begin with, really. But surely there had to be some kind of legislation.

"The stylists are allowed to make whatever they believe best represents the Districts and its Tributes." Kate replied evenly, already having the answer to his quickly-crafted inquiry.

Sherlock looked ahead and frowned.

Mary was already waiting inside the chariot. The vehicle was adorned with strikes of lightning, looking very flashy. There were two horses in front of the thing, and Sherlock could tell that his suit and scarf matched their coat colors nearly perfectly. Great. Now he looked like a cloud and could blend in with the horses. But all joking aside, he made the connection now. Mary's hair couldn't be done much with considering that it was so short already. But it had been dyed over with a much brighter shade of yellow, more striking than it had been before. A small streak of silver marked its way along the side of her hair as well, a thick strand of hair to stand out among the neon-looking yellow.

She wore a bright yellow dress as well, sequins and crystals glinting along the fabric and throwing back the light that shone down on it. The light almost made Sherlock want to squint through it, though it was tolerable enough to stare at. It was more along the lines of you wanted to look away but couldn't. A flash of light that was bright, but stunning. And as he was assisted into the chariot alongside Mary by Kate, he made the final affirmation. He was the cloud and Mary was the lightning. They were the representatives of District Three, Electricity and Engineering.

Mary made the same connection once he was righted, a small smile worming onto her face as she gave a small laugh. "Oh." She chuckled, reaching up and pressing a hand to her forehead gently. "I get it now. That's neat!" Sherlock offered a weak smile at her words, and she cleared her throat, smile dissipating as she dropped her arm. The pair of them fell into uncomfortable silence, and Sherlock gave a small cough as he looked away.

Kate and Mary's stylist situated the pair of them, coaching them on how to stand during the route. They pushed Mary and Sherlock together more, Kate giving out a small sigh of: "At least pretend to be from the same District!" Then the rearranged the two, making them switch spots in order to put their contrasting colors into a better light. Mary's dress sparkled more on this side, Sherlock noticed. Finally, probably an inch or two apart, standing up straight, chests out, their chins up, hands at their sides, Kate stopped badgering them. They were in a decent-enough position, and the Ceremony was about to start anyway. The auburn-haired woman stepped off their Chariot, reaching up and pointing at the pair of them warningly. "Don't move a single muscle!" She snapped.

Sherlock saluted, and Mary cracked yet another smile. Kate sighed, offering them a smile, and flounced off. Neither of them spoke as they fell into yet another customary silence, when Mary broke it again. "She's your Stylist?" She asked curiously, glancing over at Sherlock and raising her eyebrows.

"Obviously."

"Oh." Mary shifted, turning and looking after her, though she was far gone by now. "She seems nice." She tried smiling again. Sherlock shrugged. She was as nice as anyone else here, he supposed. The now-stellar blonde fell silent, and Sherlock tried entertaining the idea of conversation dying altogether. But Mary tried again, and he held back another small huff. "We missed you at breakfast this morning." She said. "Lestrade and I were talking, you should have been there too." Sherlock said nothing. Mary looked straight ahead again. "Anthea didn't want to get you a second time. And she was too busy texting her friends about tonight. Lestrade said you would be fine."

Sherlock scowled.

"You don't like Lestrade?" Mary asked in confusion at the expression that overcame his face. He didn't reply, trying to keep up the posture that Kate had implemented. He wasn't even sure that he knew the answer to her question. Ahead, the music had started up; the parade would begin any moment followed by the Opening Ceremony. Already he could hear the crowd waiting eagerly along its route. Mary hummed softly, not looking angry at the fact that he was ignoring her yet, though starting to get cross. "He said you would come around." She said instead.

"He seems to think he knows a lot about me." Sherlock growled.

Mary seemed surprised as he actually spoke. But she grinned, despite his barbed words. "But he was right." She pointed out. "See? You just talked to me."

"I talked to you last night." Sherlock huffed, his attitude starting to look a sharp contrast against her own. Mary smiled even more at the point-out, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, only furthering her amusement. "It isn't a momentous occasion when I speak, anyway." He drawled. "Usually most people attempt to shut me out in the first place."

Mary pursed her lips into a small frown. "That's not very fair." She said.

Sherlock didn't reply. He glanced over at her, realizing that that same innocent look was on her face. Her bright eyes were saddened almost at the thought that Sherlock had handed her, and her hands moved up from her sides to wring together in front of her. Another nervous habit she seemed to have. He looked back up front, and Mary did as well after a moment. Mycroft's words haunted the back of his mind and he put up more of a forefront at the thought of it. He didn't need an ally. He wasn't good at making friends in the first place, let alone ending up finding himself in a battle between them.

"I've never seen him before." Mary whispered softly, almost to herself.

The doors in front of them opened, and up ahead, the District One Chariot departed, the well-trained horses heading out automatically by themselves. As Jim Moriarty and Irene Adler entered the route, Sherlock winced a bit at the loud roar of screams and applause from the crowd carpeting the sides of the route cleared for them. Careers were always a favorite. And it was showing at the sheer amount of screams being elicited from the mere sight of them.

Curiosity got the better of Sherlock. He turned. "Who?" He asked as he tilted his head to the side.

"The President." Mary murmured, catching his gaze and shifting a little bit in her flats. Sherlock sobered at the mention of him, and Mary shrugged. "I've only ever seen Magnuessen on television. For the Hunger Games. I've never seen him in person." Sherlock nodded in silent agreement. Other than seeing him on a screen, either for an announcement to the Districts, or for the duration of the Hunger Games, Sherlock hadn't seen him at all. He just knew that he was one in charge of…well, everything. "It's a little daunting." Mary mumbled softly under her breath.

"It's not as if he'll be paying exclusive attention to us." Sherlock said back just as quietly.

Mary shrugged. "Still."

District Two, — Sally Donovan and Philip Anderson, Sherlock remembered — departed after District One. The pair of them were next, and on cue, their horses started to trot forward at a brisk pace, to keep the rhythm of the parade steady. Sherlock lurched backwards at the sudden march, not used to using anything other than cars for transportation. Mary broke into a fit of giggles as she too tripped up, their assigned stances going haywire as they had to right themselves against the movement. Sherlock found himself gripping the front part of the Chariot just to keep himself upright.

They broke out of the stables, and immediately were blinded. It was twilight outside, and yet the crowd around them was filled with cameras flashing, people screaming out for them and waving their arms. Overhead, they were announced over a loudspeaker with enough volume to overpower the crowd. "District Three!" It was thundered, and Sherlock realized that a few people were actually calling out their names. Sherlock Holmes and Mary Morstan rippled all around them, and a few people actually threw out things such a flowers in their direction.

Mary's dress was stunning, thanks to the cameras. Whether it was planned or not, with every flash of light from the shutters that came in the vicinity of Mary, her dress threw the glare right back into the crowd. It sparkled and glinted, flashes of light bouncing off of her bright yellow dress as she looked down at herself with a smile. Sherlock was sidetracked as well at the sight of it, looking at the sparks of light coming off from their Chariot with an impressed look. And it took a lot to impress someone like Sherlock.

"It's like lightning!" Mary yelled over the crowd, stating the obvious as she turned and looked at Sherlock with a giddy expression. The boy in the gray suit blinked, searching her eyes and face at the look of extreme excitement overcoming the girl rapidly. He watched as she rolled back and forth on her heels, turning once he didn't reply to wave at the crowd eagerly. His eyes narrowed a bit, more out of uneasiness than anything, as he wondered if this really was Mary Morstan. He'd never known her before. She seemed…much too happy to be here. Too nice. Too sweet. He'd no idea.

So he cleared his throat and played along as best he could. "Everyone loves you!" He yelled, having to scream to be heard from the girl who was two inches away from him. They were making steady progress now, the other Tributes arriving and taking their spot in the parade. Yet Sherlock could still hear his and Mary's name ringing every so often.

Mary turned and looked at him with a toothy smile. "And you!" She encouraged. "You make a lovely cloud!"

"So I've heard!" Sherlock yelled in response.

Mary leaned forward suddenly, a small noise of strain coming out from her in the form of squeak as she jerked herself over the top of the Chariot. Sherlock stiffened, reaching out as if in the attempt to grab her back up in case she fell. A premature death wasn't what was needed right now. That was scheduled to happen in four days. But before he could get close to the girl, she had jerked back up into a standing position. Her cheeks were flushed, and her brightly-yellow hair was a bit out of place from her dash down. But she looked very pleased with herself.

She reached out and offered the thing she had caught in her hand to him. Sherlock looked down, blinking once as he realized that the thing Mary had swiped down for was one of the roses being thrown at them from the audience. She held out the pretty plant to him, and his face clouded over with confusion at the odd gesture. The blonde wore a smile on her face as she reached out further, almost pressing the thing to him now.

But Sherlock was saved by a bump in the road. Had he been paying attention, he would have noticed how much it jarred the Tributes in front of him. But when someone standing by you suddenly turns upside down, it gets hard to pay attention to anything else. The Chariot jerked up and down wildly as they hit the hump, and Mary lost her grip on the rose as she flew back forward to grip the front of the car tightly. The rose tumbled out of the Chariot and fell down to be abandoned on the ground behind. And as Sherlock jerked forward to keep himself on his feet, he swore he distinctly heard yells of disappointment from the crowd.

He started to ask Mary what in the world that was all about, when he saw that they were at the end of the route now. He and Mary straightened as they began to circle around with the other Chariots, Sherlock looking up at the television screen that was broadcasting the Ceremony now. He wondered if his family was watching, or what they were thinking. And surprisingly, with no warning at all, he felt a wave of homesick slam into him so hard that his grip on the Chariot increased tenfold.

The cameras were still trained onto District Twelve, the last District to circle up for the Ceremony. The others were starting to arrange themselves, the first few already set and merely waiting. On the television, Sherlock saw the two Tributes he'd noticed last night. They were in rather simple clothes, but they were elegant at the same time. That petite girl — Molly…? — was wearing a lacy black dress with long sleeves, her makeup styled so that it almost looked like coal on her face rather than eye shadow. John Watson — that name he remembered — was wearing a pure black tuxedo, similar makeup smeared on both cheeks symmetrically. Sherlock remembered that District Twelve was the mining District, which explained their attire.

Then, the crowd quieted as the President marched into view overhead. He was a graciously thin, graciously tall man, with a simple suit on and framed glasses. He clasped his hands behind his back and surveyed the crowd and the Tributes of this year before him, a strange calmness about him as he smiled. Magnuessen waited until the crowd was quiet to begin speaking, starting with his customary thanks to the Tributes and thanks to the crowd for taking part in the celebration. He started to go into the history of Panem, along with giving the traditional welcoming speech from the balcony where he stood. Sherlock watched him carefully, an uneasy feeling in his stomach as he stared up at the man.

He only turned when Mary made a small noise in the back of her throat. He realized that, as usual, the camera was panning to the Tributes' faces during the President's speech. And now it was trained on the pair of them, and he realized fully, seeing them together, that Kate had not lied. Sherlock and Mary, however different in facial construction and attitude, matched well in the mindset of their District. Cameras were still flashing their way, and Sherlock had the feeling that it was more out of the desire to see Mary's dress sparkle and shine in response to the glares rather than the need for a photo. Her dress was giving off light with each flash, and Sherlock's dark and light grays beside her proved a brilliant offset to her reactions. He reached up a little self-consciously to fix his fluffed scarf as the camera remained on them for an unnaturally long amount of time. He wondered what the announcers could be saying about them.

Then, once the Ceremony closed and the cameras moved on to Jim and Irene, who were brilliant as well in their crowns and crystals, the Chariots retreated. Mary stumbled a little bit as they jerked into motion, but Sherlock helped to steel her before she could fall off. That wouldn't make a good impression at all on anybody watching. Mary huffed, fixing her sparking dress with a flustered look as she straightened. "Thank you." She whispered in his direction.

Sherlock only nodded in response.

They got back into the Stables, and everybody started to chatter at once. The girl Tribute from District Four — Janine Hawkins — took off a particularly painful-looking wreath that had been mounted on her head, metal in the figures of swimming fish. She had a headache from her pinched look, and Sherlock found himself being thankful that there weren't any sharp or uncomfortable pieces to his outfit. Or Mary's. In fact… he was starting to like the billowy scarf he had on. And not for the fact that it resembled a stretched-out crowd.

"Whoops." Mary mumbled in his ear. Sherlock turned at the small sigh, looking confused. Mary was looking in the direction of District One's Chariot though, and the boy's confused look melted as he caught sight of Irene. The girl looked peeved beyond reason where she stood, and it was clear where her anger was directed as she shot a swift yet threatening look Mary's way. The blonde shifted, reaching up and rubbing at the silver streak in her hair self-consciously. "I think our stylists did a little too good…" She mumbled, actually looking worried. And Sherlock couldn't blame her considering that was a Career who was glaring at her. "You think she's angry at me?" Mary asked, yet again asking the obvious.

"Fit to kill." Sherlock grinned in a dark sense of humor.

Mary looked away, frowning as she ducked her head. "I hope not…" She whispered.

"What's the difference?" Sherlock asked, turning and sidling past her to jump out of the Chariot. Mary didn't move at this, but her eyes were trained on Sherlock as he started away. Their stylists and teams would be waiting for them outside the door, though she didn't make a move to follow.

Sherlock paused to fix his scarf, looking over and catching the eye of that District Twelve boy. He was staring their way from the end of the Chariot line, and Sherlock straightened a bit as their gazes clashed. He waited for the teenager to look away— that was usually how things went when people were caught staring. But John Watson didn't look away at first, merely holding the gaze sent his way without a shred of embarrassment at the concept of being caught leering. Six seconds passed before John turned, turning his gaze on the girl stepping out the Chariot and smiling at something she said. His mouth moved to reply to her, and he started to help her out good-naturedly. Now Sherlock found himself staring, and as John started to glance back at him again, he tore his gaze away as quickly as he could, putting his back to him instead as he picked up where he left off.

"We're going to die anyway." He pointed out, as if commenting on something as simple as the weather.

"You really think that?" Mary asked quizzically, jumping out of the Chariot and making her dress spark as she landed with a thump.

"Of course I do." Sherlock said. "Why would I stand a chance of winning?"

Mary considered this. She searched his eyes with that same odd and innocent look. Her eyes narrowed briefly at the sentence. But when she spoke, the squint disappeared, and she reached over to him, smiling widely as she held out her hand. "Mary Morstan." She said brightly. Sherlock eyed her oddly and looked down at the hand, looking a little bit more than confused. When her hand wasn't taken, she pressed on. "We haven't met each other yet. Not really. And you haven't been around either. So….I'm Mary Morstan."

Sherlock looked from the girl's pleasant smile to her hand that was stretched out to him. _You don__'__t need to focus on getting allies, Sherlock, you need to focus on getting Sponsors. _Mycroft's words rang in his head, and Sherlock fought the urge to scowl. He didn't know what to do. He didn't want to listen to Mycroft, he didn't want to have his words entered his head every hour of every day. But it was all he had to go one here; he certainly had no idea of what to do himself. But still…

He closed his eyes briefly, allowing a small wave of frustration and despair to well up inside him, just briefly. He didn't want to be here. He didn't want to win over Sponsors. He didn't want to appeal to the audience. He didn't want to dress up for people. He didn't want Mycroft in his mind every time he had to make a choice. He didn't want to make friends. He didn't want any of this. But he had no choice.

He steeled himself. Pushed down the despair and forced himself to put his chin up again. No weakness— he didn't need Mycroft's advice to know that one. No weakness and no missing home. Though he knew he stood no chance, he knew he had to try. And if trying meant doing all he could to try and stay alive, he knew that he couldn't be making enemies instead, as long as he could help it. Especially one from his own District. So, trying to push away his confusion with her innocent eyes and bright smile, he opened his eyes and offered Mary Morstan a small smile as he reached out his hand to take hers in a shake.

"Sherlock Holmes." He replied neatly.

(~**~) (~**~) (~**~) (~**~)

AN: Please leave a review telling me whether or not you like it! :)

In about two chapters they'll leave for the actual Hunger Games!


	4. Chapter 4

"…do you have to do that?"

All eyes flickered up from where they were trained down at the plates of assorted food. It had been quiet for the past half hour, so quiet that the sound of birdsong could be heard from outside, for any of the birds that were daring enough to wake up this early in the morning. The sun was just starting to inch its way out of the ground, its weak rays not offering much warmth against the cold of the dining room. In fact, the entire floor, the floor in which the Tributes from District Three and their teams were to stay, was freezing. They had been assigned to this floor late last night, after the Opening Ceremony— Sherlock found himself waiting for the sun to rise almost eagerly for the first time in his life it seemed, if only to see whether it would bring with it a touch of warmth.

The boy had been the one to speak, resting his chin on the palm of his hand and looking across the table with a cocked eyebrow. Anthea looked up as the voice was directed to her, blinking in surprise as she perked. There was confusion written on her face even as she met eyes with the teenager, and so he cleared his throat, straightening up so that he could point instead at the thing she held in her hands. Her stupid phone, again. "Why are you doing that?" He pressed again, the question coming out in a frustrated huff. "Why are you…texting? Why do you always text people? What in the world could you be saying? You weren't texting earlier."

Anthea blinked again, and Sherlock was beginning to wonder if she even understood him that time. How could she not? He was rather bland with the topic; there was hardly a time where he wasn't blunt, to be perfectly honest. Mary, who was sitting two chairs away from Sherlock, looked up from her book with a slightly nervous expression. She had been reading while she was eating, a habit that Sherlock had started to harbor himself whenever he had been back home. The sight of the blonde with her book strategically propped up behind her plate was making him wish that he had swiped a book back in District Three for himself, or that he could just take that one. Even if it was some trashy romance novel.

"What do you mean?" Anthea asked. Greg was looking up now too, though he wasn't looking from one to the other like Mary was doing. The older man's eyes were drilled into Sherlock from where he sat two chairs away as well, looking oddly thoughtful as he narrowed his eyes slightly. Anthea glanced down at her phone, and then seemed to make the connection. But to Sherlock's surprise, she only grinned. "Does everything irritate you, or are we just the special ones?" She asked instead, not even looking up at Sherlock as he straightened a little self-consciously. Where she sat, Mary gave a small snort of amusement, which was only increased in volume as Sherlock threw a look her way.

"My question still stands." Sherlock prompted after a moment, looking down and stabbing at his untouched food with a fork. He'd no motive to eat any of the food; despite the very popular belief spread throughout the Districts, the boy found Capitol food to be…too sweet. Way too sweet. "You weren't doing that before. You only started on the train over here. And you weren't doing it last night during the Ceremony." Anthea quirked an eyebrow at this as she shifted her gaze to him yet again. "You do it all the time here. It's annoying."

"Sherlock." Mary growled warningly out of the corner of her mouth, amusement gone at the boy's niggling sense of involvement. Sherlock glanced her way at this, frowning at the expression of impatience on her face now. He didn't see the issue. No one else was speaking. Nobody was even making an attempt at conversation, other than mumbled compliments on the food or comments about the Parade yesterday. No 'Good job's or 'They really loved you's. Absolutely nothing. Frankly at this point, on the first day of their actual training for the Games, for which they would leave for soon, Sherlock was growing frustrated. Could he not question them? They certainly weren't questioning him and Mary, or doing their jobs whatsoever in helping prepare them for what was about to happen!

"Well." Anthea sighed, almost carelessly as she offered a small smile in the boy's direction. Sherlock snapped to attention as she spoke, the woman having taken her time in replying as she looked instead around them, at their new living space. Or at least, new to Sherlock and Mary. The pair — Lestrade and Anthea — had probably been here far too many times. "Do you misbehave in front of your parents when they're looking?"

The question was odd, and Sherlock's forehead creased at her words. It wasn't a very clearing answer. But then again, he hadn't wanted an answer in the first place; he'd just wanted to clear the silence that was suffocating him. That and he wanted to bring to light the irritating way her eyes were glued to the screen whenever they were back inside their own rooms. But Anthea only offered a small smile over to the boy, almost coy before she turned her gaze away for the final time. The teenager wasn't sure whether to be angered further or to shrug away the rather intelligent point made. So he did a little bit of both.

"Why a mobile phone, though?" Sherlock asked. "I mean I would understand anything else. Especially since you live here in the Capitol. Why wouldn't you go out and get the newest-"

"Greg please talk to the children before I implode." Anthea mumbled, her words distant despite their content as she typed away. Sherlock, who had been interrupted — again — snapped his mouth closed, locking his jaw backwards tightly. Mary however looked piqued, closing her book and bringing it down to set in her lap. "You've been skirting it for a while now, you might as well start before they leave. Sherlock is running out of things to complain about while you wait." Anthea said this last part lazily, rolling the accusation off of her tongue as she fiddled with the device in her palms.

Sherlock let out a pointed hum at the notion, as if to ask: 'Is that what you think, then?'

Lestrade sighed slowly through his nose, lingering over his plate a few moments more, despite the fact that it was nearly empty. "I was getting to that." He said after his small pause, shifting in his chair before looking up to glance between the two teenagers near him. Consciously, Sherlock had been the last to breakfast, and, consciously, he had chosen the farthest seat, one of the extras set up just in case there would be others for the meal. Sherlock was two seats away from Lestrade, and two away from Mary, making the glances between each Tribute more distance than necessary.

There was a long, slightly awkward, pause. In which Sherlock sat up and pushed his back against the chair, blue eyes trained onto the man in a critical sort of expectance. Mary coughed where she sat, worrying at her newly-dyed hair as she shifted her weight from side to side. And when Lestrade spoke, it was a simple order. "Stand up." There wasn't real authority in the man's voice, something that surprised Sherlock, considering that he had figured a Mentor to have such attributes. It sounded almost like a suggestion, not a command. Nevertheless, Mary stood immediately, pushing in her chair and taking her spot a little ways behind the table. Sherlock, glancing from one to the other, reluctantly complied, going over and standing at Mary's right shoulder.

Lestrade stood as well, going over and standing in front of them. His eyes were sharp now, Sherlock noticed; or at least sharper than they had been any other time. They were attentive and focused as they roved over the pair of kids standing near the wall, and the Mentor reached up to rub at his chin as he surveyed them. "Well." He started a little slow, giving a light cough as he put his hands into the pockets of his pants. "The thing is…that usually, District Three Tributes get a bad wrap." A blunt start, Sherlock noted a little dryly. Not exactly to the tune of an oncoming pep talk. "We haven't had a Victor in ages; you know it's a little less than perfect when I'm the last surviving one." It was meant as a joke; Sherlock wasn't fazed, staring blandly in the man's direction. Mary, ever so helpful, offering the man a small smile that didn't reach her eyes exactly, humming out something Sherlock could only guess was supposed to be a laugh.

Lestrade nodded, as if realizing that the jab was made in poor taste. "Right. Anyway." He brushed aside. "I'm not saying that things are impossible, because they rarely ever are. But….you know, it's going to take a lot of effort. Most people don't look twice at us, which is part of the reason why Kate was so bent on making you two look good last night. The point is that we have to keep that going, and definitely not let it get too far away from us." There was a warning laced through his tone, and Sherlock was almost offended he'd thought such a thing would be a problem. A few fancy clothes and a few shouts of their names wasn't enough to make them think that were good enough to not try during the actual Games. That was a fool's hobby. But still…

"We needed this talk two days ago." Sherlock found himself voicing the thought in a small grumble as he looked to the side, out the window. Since they were District Three, they were, naturally, on the third level on the Training Center. There wasn't much in terms of a view whenever you were on the third floor anywhere else, but here they still had a very wide view of the Capitol, despite their proximity to the ground. It wasn't so much the interest in the view though, that had Sherlock glancing its way.

Lestrade turned, looking at Sherlock with something akin to a warning stare. Sherlock saw the look out of the corner of his eyes, but didn't draw mind to it as he kept looking out the window. To his surprise, Lestrade didn't snap. The man just shook his head, his tone even as he said instead: "I'll get to you." This did cause Sherlock to twist back forward, tilting his head to the side and opening his mouth questioningly. But the old Victor had already moved on as he looked over to Mary, who shuffled nervously once the attention was onto her specifically. "You. Mary Morstan, isn't it?" He asked, as if unsure. Sherlock was even more confused at this. When Mary gave a dutiful nod, he mirrored the gesture invitingly. "What can you do?"

Read. The thought was a little mean as it crossed Sherlock's mind, but the boy was never one to pay mind to such aspects. It was true; he hadn't seen Mary do anything of importance….at all. She read, she bit her lower lip, she shuffled her feet a lot, and she was a 'tenacious' person when it came to making friends with Sherlock. Expectedly, Sherlock watched as, yet again, the blonde glanced down and started to wring her hands together. She offered a small shake of the head, and when Lestrade didn't make a move to get his gaze off of her, Mary Morstan shrugged her shoulders.

Sherlock found his face falling at this. Where his arms were crossed over his chest, he let them fall, the teenager turning a little bit more to look her way. Suddenly he felt an unexpected sort of sadness. No, not sadness. Not really. It was more like pity, which wasn't much better at the moment. He didn't know any of the other Tributes personally, and he couldn't remember whether or not there were any that were younger than him. But suddenly he realized that it was a sad fact that somebody like Mary, who'd no assets or capabilities to really stand out, was supposed to go out there into the Games.

Sure, there were people like Sherlock, who never attempted to do anything more harmful than burn an ant with a microscope who were placed in this situation. But at least he was capable of adapting. He had the potential to craft something of use, to get over his moral barrier, to use his intelligence in a more lethal form and maybe last longer than 300 seconds. But somebody like Mary? They weren't able to. They died within maybe 180. And as Mary shifted in her worrisome fashion, he couldn't stop a weary frown to crawl over his features.

Though Sherlock could see Lestrade's expression change from an almost hopeful one, to a pained smile, the man gave an encouraging nod down to the girl. "Do you have anything?" He asked, taking his hands out from his pockets. Yet again, Mary offered silence. Lestrade nodded, clearing his throat yet again as he leaned over to grab her shoulder in what Sherlock suspecting was supposed to be a comforting gesture. "It's alright." He comforted, Mary's expression crestfallen now as she looked up. "That's what these few days before the Games are for, aren't they? You need to work something out while you're down at the Training Center, yeah? Looking at you I'd say you try to work with knives or smaller weapons. You don't look like you could handle anything more than that." He added as he looked at the girl's slim frame.

Mary nodded, too subdued to speak.

Lestrade turned, Sherlock wiping away any concern that might have wormed its way onto his face while the man's back was turned to him. But Lestrade must have caught the expression, because he gave a small smile, his eyes softening a bit. Sherlock locked his jaw backwards, irate as he crossed his arms over his chest tightly again. "Now you." He said, not having to ask the young man's name as he did Mary. The Mentor raised one finger to point accusingly over at him. "You need to put your mouth to better use." He ordered, tone a bit firmer now than when he told Sherlock and Mary to stand. "Because that will be your main asset in these Games."

Sherlock tensed, digging his fingers into his elbows with a soured look. Mary stilled as well, looking up from her downcast stare at the ground, blinking a few times as she looked from Sherlock to Lestrade. She cracked a small smile, Sherlock flaring at the small giggle coming from her at the bad wording. "Stop it." He growled out of the corner of his mouth, Mary shaking her head as she turned it away pointedly, hiding her smirk as she laughed under her breath, trying to be inconspicuous. Sherlock glared at her, but he found the expression harder and harder to put up as Mary brightened out of her recent despair. Oddly enough, the more she laughed away her frown, the harder it was to glare at her. "Stop it." He repeated, turning away from her, the only way to keep the ghost of a smile away from his lips.

"I've seen you a lot of times before now." Lestrade said, causing Sherlock to jerk with surprise. He'd almost forgotten that the man had lived in the same District as he did, since before he was born, even. Now he was truly surprised that he hadn't spoken to Lestrade before. After all, as Mayor, his family was known through most of the District itself, even him as the youngest of the Holmes. They threw parties many times as well, and hundreds of people arrived in whatever celebration was intended. Had Sherlock potentially been in the same room as this man? Shared in the same conversations, however one-sided they always were when it came to the boy? Looking back on it now, he realized maybe he made a mistake in being so intrusive. At least then maybe he would have found the story of how Lestrade had managed to win these Games. When he was Sherlock's age. "I probably know more about you than you think I do." Lestrade went on. "Or at least your brother. But you two are probably just like each ot-"

"I'm nothing like Mycroft." The objection came flatly. Mary frowned at this.

Lestrade stopped short; Sherlock felt a small flash of satisfaction that for once he wasn't the one being cut off. After all this time, he felt as if he had some sort of right to do it to someone else. The man considered this for a moment, looking skeptical. "Well then." He said, tone a bit sharp. He reached up, gesturing a little sloppily as his wrist went in small little circles. "I guess you can't do the…thing that he can. Your brother was always able to look at someone and judge them perfectly. I didn't see him a lot, but I heard about it." He said, Sherlock stiffening at the conclusion. "A shame; I don't really know what to do with you now, then." He started to turn away. "I guess you can-"

"Wait!" Sherlock blustered, hands flopping back to his sides. "I can-"

"Nope. You said you aren't like him. And you sounded pretty sure of yourself. Maybe you could make do with-"

It was like a competition to see who could interrupt the other person the most.

Sherlock's hands clasped into tight fists where they hung. "You didn't sleep much last night." He growled, angry now as he spat out the words testily. Lestrade stopped mid-turn, looking at the boy out of the corner of his eye as he straightened with interest. Mary, still standing beside Sherlock, turned and watched intently as the scene unfolded. "Anyone could see it from the bags under your eyes, but it shows in your hair as well. You tossed and turned— it's still awry from rubbing itself on your pillow. You tried to smooth it down with water but the left side is still prominently asymmetrical from your right, so I wouldn't call it a stellar job. But that's not a surprising factor, considering you aren't really a fan of sleep in general. Your right eye twitches— a sign of a rampant coffee drinker who relies on caffeine in order to get through the day.

"I would blame it on nerves of the recent Games but it's been going on for far too long, this is routine for you, there's no surprise on your end." Mary's eyes were round and huge now, something in between awe and concern edging her gaze as she listened. Lestrade had the hint of a smile on his face by now, on the other hand. But still, Sherlock wasn't finished. "You're not a very social butterfly; it shows in the way that you hold yourself. You're nervous, on-edge, maybe because you know that one of us is going to die soon, but more likely you're upset with yourself for letting so many kids die in the first place, us now on the list of those who will be deceased." Mary stiffened at this. "But it doesn't take much at all to come to that conclusion, either, that's elementary. What's more difficult to scope out are your loose family ties. The fact that, although you have near family, you're hardly in connection with them anymore. Your mother is upset, she tried to stop you, recently by the way you just cringed, and from what I can only guess, she's the author of that note in the front breast pocket of your shirt. Why you would hold it so close shows that you most likely-"

"Alright. Alright." Another interruption. Sherlock snapped his jaw back with a click, a little out of breath from his rant. Mary hadn't made a move the entire speech, and she still refused to budge as she kept her round eyes trained on the brunette. Sherlock didn't turn to look at her, sour as he glared in Lestrade's direction, who had been the one to speak. The man wasn't smiling as much as he'd been before now that Sherlock had gotten a bit too close in his deductions, but the teenager still felt a flash of satisfaction at the accomplishment. "You don't have to go into detail." The Mentor went on, waving him off. "I was just making a point."

"You were making a point?!" Sherlock exclaimed, eyes widening as his tone spiked with the first word. Lestrade nodded. Rather that fazing back into anger, Sherlock only shook his head in rampant exasperation. "You were making a point!?" He repeated. "What point were you trying to make?"

"You said you weren't like your brother. When I tried to correct you, I'm surprised you didn't bit my head off. You nearly did." Lestrade pointed out a bit thinly.

"But I-….I'm not." Sherlock stammered, looking a little lost now as he swallowed. "I mean, I just…" He trailed off for a moment, biting back the words he was about to utter as he frowned deeply instead. "I'm…"

"See?" Lestrade asked. He turned back around fully, going over and pointing down into the center of Sherlock's chest. The young boy looked down at the prod, eyes troubled at the new tone the Mentor had adopted. Lestrade didn't speak for a moment, and it turns out that he was waiting for Sherlock to meet his gaze before he went on. And when the fourteen-year-old complied, he was met with the man shaking his head firmly. "You're not always right, Sherlock. Even if it's about little things, you aren't always the right one." He stated clearly. "And the sooner you realize this…the better off your chances of survival will be."

(~**~) (~**~) (~**~) (~**~)

Sherlock remained at Mary's side. It was clear that the blonde preferred the companionship, staying close to the younger boy's side the entire way down to the Training Center. Sherlock's stomach was a hard knot of nerves, and Mary seemed to mirror the feeling as she kept taking breaths deeper than the last. Lestrade had sent them off with a soft bid of farewell, having done all that he could at the moment. He told the pair of them that it would be wise to glance over the other Tributes through the duration of the Games, to try and size them up. And considering —weapons-wise, that is— that Sherlock and Mary had no outstanding capabilities already, not to worry about hiding skills and just work at all they could. You couldn't try and hide something that didn't exist, after all.

Lestrade had prescribed Mary to knives, and things of that nature. Sherlock hadn't gotten such a clear-cut suggestion. Lestrade hadn't offered him one; he had just said that Sherlock's main weapon was his mind. Which….was really not such a great comfort. And a little offensive in a sense. But there hadn't been any objections to the idea, the boy figuring that just following Mary along would be easy enough. He could tell that they would have ended up in such a routine anyway, with the fretful look that the girl wore as she walked along.

They were running late— they had missed the orientation into the Training Center and all of the stations that it had. But it was pretty self-explanatory; Sherlock wasn't worried at all about it as he marched into the room. Mary wrung her hands together, but didn't make a move to complain about their bad timing. It was worth it at least, to listen to Lestrade talk them through a few important aspects of these next few days. It was a little belated, but the Mentor had explained that he'd wanted to observe the kids before approaching them about tactics. And even now they didn't really have a lot to go off of. Practice weapons. Watch the others. Don't get into any fights. Try to see whether or not you could become allies with some of them.

"Alright." Sherlock sighed lightly, looking around the wide expanse of high-tech training equipment. There was an archery ring near the back, one of the Tributes from District Eight string up her bow and readying herself to take aim. There was a fire station, a plants station, other skills in that sense scattered around, which weren't a popular as the knife-throwing area or the target practice to the left. A typical thing to see, Sherlock supposed. Besides the need for fire, which was essential in the long run, studying things like plants and spending all your time memorizing which roots did what was a waste of time.

Looking around, he could see that everyone else was there already. Jim Moriarty and Irene Adler were picking out weapons from their storage near the middle of the room, still looking to be in some kind of odd conversation. Sebastian was heading over to them, Sherlock's nose wrinkling in distaste as he realized that the Career Pack was already assembling. Jonathan Small was talking to Bill Wiggins, which was surprising considering they were from different Districts. The same went for Sarah Sawyer and Sally Donovan, though even when he was many yards away from the pair of girls, he could plainly see the tension that tightened both of their shoulders as they talked in polite quips.

Most of them were tense, it looked like. Though they smiled at one another, it didn't reach their eyes, and the constant looking to the side or around the room showed that they weren't fully invested in the conversations they were undergoing. Sherlock scoffed underneath his breath at this, turning and grabbing at Mary's wrist a little roughly. "Let's go make a fire." He said, not making it much of a question as it was a command.

"But I thought Greg said to-"

"We're making a fire." Sherlock huffed in reply. Mary started to object again, but Sherlock didn't look back. Instead, he veered them around the other Tributes in the large, expansive room, coming to a stop once they arrived. The fire station looked like a miniature woods, something that seemed rather cheesy, but only fitting considering the motive. There wasn't a lot to work with, actually. Twigs and little slices of branches. The boy only sighed again. "Try to find as much as you can." He said, already looking around. "For a whole section dedicated to making fire, you think they would put more wood here. Not just grass and dirt."

Mary blinked, not replying as she ducked away, bending low to the ground and running her hands over the grass as she sought out usable tinder. Sherlock did the same and they worked in silence for a few moments. The boy cocked his head to the side, wondering whether or not he could listen in on the mumbled conversations hanging in the background. He was mostly worried about those Careers, not the others. But Mary spoke up before he could try and even find out where they had drifted to. "What's got you upset?" She asked, looking over at him with a worried expression. Sherlock paused at the odd question, staring down at the bundle of twigs he'd managed to find as his forehead creased.

"What?" He asked, confused as he went back to work, not glancing her way.

She cleared her throat. "You just…looked upset when we arrived. I thought you would be excited now that we're finally…" She trailed off, the blonde not managing to finish her sentence as she merely stared at the boy's back.

Sherlock sighed through his nose. "Something my brother told me before I left."

"Your brother?" Mary echoed, going back to sit on her haunches. "I thought you didn't like him." As Sherlock flared at the question, she hastily backtracked to cover herself. "I mean— it's none of my business. But… you're so far away from him. You should forget whatever he said to make you mad. You shouldn't focus on the past." She blinked at this and slowly turned her gaze from where it was trained onto the teenager to look back down at the grass. "Just…focus on now." She mumbled softly. "It'll do you more good."

"It's not that." Sherlock objected. "It's just…being allies. Making allies with people. It's pointless." Mary stilled at this, eyes rounding out a little bit as she stopped combing the ground for branches. "All they do is kill each other in the end. It always plays out the same: with one betraying the other and going into this long, drawn-out ordeal that could have easily been avoided." The younger shook his head. "You aren't here to make friends. You weren't drafted into the Hunger Games to make peace. This right here isn't some little romp in the woods. It's atonement for what happened in the past. You were brought here to kill people and that's what you need to do. Not delay the inevitable." As he went through his speech, his movements got more angered, the teenager eventually slapping down the pile of wood he'd managed to scavenge in front of Mary, who was sitting back looking dumbfounded. "Help me light this." He growled underneath his breath, arranging the pile into a neater stack.

Mary stared at him, not moving a muscle. "You…really think that?" She asked softly, her expression something akin to hurt as she stared at him. The boy stopped short at the gaze, but he only nodded. He wouldn't sugar coat this— like he'd said, there was no delaying what was going to happen. With someone like Mary…the sooner she realized this, the better. But the blonde only pushed harder as he confirmed his statement. "You have to have allies, Sherlock!" She objected, her eyes wide. "You won't make it anywhere if you don't! And if you do, it'll only be harder for yourself!"

"They're useless." He said, taking one of her sticks when she didn't make a move to hand it to him, rubbing against one of the largest branches with concentrated force. It wouldn't take long to light it if he did this correctly. "There hasn't been a single allied group that didn't turn against one another in the entire history of the Hunger Games, and that's a fact. Look around. None of these people are truly getting along. It's all an act— they're already planning their 'partner's' demise. You can be fooled by the fake smiles, but I certainly am not about to be."

"That's not true." Mary objected. "Districts have to stick together! Look at District Twelve!"

Sherlock perked at this, turning and following the girl's pointed finger in the direction of the archery range. Sure enough, the two Tributes that had been in the back of the Parade last night were stationing themselves there together, the petite-looking girl trying to figure out how to string her bow properly. The boy, the one that Sherlock had found himself staring at last night, was standing back and watching, his mouth moving as if he were giving the other instructions on what to do. Molly Hooper seemed rather incapable, blushing beet red as she always mistimed her string, looking frustrated as the arrow kept drifting off to the side aimlessly. John gave a small laugh, leaning over and pulling her hands the direction they needed to be, stepping back and offering more help once he'd done that step for her. It was a losing battle already; Sherlock didn't have to be there in their conversation to know that. But the boy seemed unable to let the girl leave the station without attempting to fire at least one of the arrows.

Sherlock frowned, caught off-guard. Though pointless, the help was genuine, along with the smile that was drawn over John Watson's face. Molly was growing overworked, uttering out embarrassed phrases that must have been dismissive, though John always denied her words each time they arrived. The boy found himself staring rather openly, but as John started to glance back in his direction, he turned swiftly, hoping that he had been quick enough to turn away before he was caught leering. After all, he had been on the other end of the exchange last night, and the thought of an unwanted audience had pricked at his skin. "Humph. That doesn't mean anything." He growled fixedly, looking back down at the slowly-kindling fire. "Just watch. It'll happen eventually." Still, he wasn't leaving his first stance.

Mary wilted. "Sherlock…" She pleaded softly, her face falling. "You can't-" She broke off for a moment, looking troubled now. Sherlock didn't pay heed, merely busying himself with increasing the friction between the two branches. Smoke was fizzling off from the pile now, and Sherlock felt a small flash of satisfaction at the idea of such success. But the satisfaction was short-lived as Mary reached over, grabbing his wrist as he had done to her and stopping his brisk movements before a single spark could make its appearance. "Sherlock." She repeated, louder this time.

The teenager's neck snapped up, the boy's eyes narrowing in anger. "What?" He demanded, his tone a little bit harsh.

"Please don't do that." Mary requested softly, her eyes desperate as they bored holes through the boy. The teenager snapped his mouth closed, disgruntled as he locked his jaw backwards instead of replying. After the pregnant pause, the blonde shook her head. "I….I can't make it alone Sherlock; not in this. Not in these Games. I can't throw a knife, I'm not quick enough to bounce out of the way of a weapon, and I can't even think fast like you can! I can't-" She broke off, grimacing deeply. Sherlock didn't make a move to respond, and when he didn't, she went on a much smaller voice.

"Please." She mumbled, letting go of Sherlock's wrist and drawing back her hand to press it against her hair, dyed bright yellow with the one streak of gray. "We're supposed to be a team, aren't we?" Again, Sherlock remained mute. She winced, but tried again, relentless in a pathetic sort of way. "Don't leave me alone, Sherlock. I thought we were friends. I thought that maybe we could-"

"Let's get one thing straight, here, Mary Morstan." Sherlock suddenly snapped. The girl stiffened at the sudden change in tone, her spine going into a straight line as she leaned back slightly. The boy glared at her warningly, a silent telling for her to stop talking. His grip on the wood in his hands was enough to bleach his knuckles white, and he spoke through tightly gritted teeth. He didn't have to wait for Mary's attention; he knew for a fact that it was undivided already from the first few simple words. He pointed out his index finger, gesturing between them with a hard look. "We…are not a team." He spat. "There's no 'us' or 'we' in these Games. We're just from the same District. Nothing else. Do you understand?"

Mary looked a cross between terrified at the tone of voice Sherlock was using, and wildly offended at the words that were coming out from the boy's mouth. But Sherlock wasn't about to stop just because some doe-eyes met his. No— now that he started, he couldn't seem to stop himself. "That doesn't mean anything. It doesn't mean that we're going to win together, it doesn't mean we're going to be best friends, and it certainly does not mean that we're going to be allies. I can help you learn how to throw a knife, and I can show you how to make a fire, but as soon as we get into the Arena, that's where I get off. Because I don't have friends, Mary Morstan. And I'm certainly not going to change that now."

Heavy silence met his words. Mary was stiff as a board now, and she swallowed thickly as her eyes flashed down to the ground silently. Sherlock's hands were tight fists, and he slowly realized that he had lost his temper and that he had let it flare far too much. But there wasn't much opportunity to take back something as big as this, not when it had already been let out. So he sat back instead, unclenching his knuckles and letting blood flow back to his fingers.

Mary reached up, drawing a hand through her hair and clearing her throat with a soft grimace. "….you know what…it's fine." She murmured, abashed as her voice cracked slightly. "You…just take care of yourself. Don't…don't worry about me, I can teach myself to do things. I wouldn't want to…um…" She shook her head, getting up to her feet a little abruptly as she already started to scan the room for another place to go. Though there wasn't any sort of tactic thought swimming behind her eyes— it was more like the mere desire to flee.

Sherlock sighed, hanging his head with an uncomfortable look. "Mary, I'm-"

"It's fine." Mary whispered sharply, already spinning on her heel to march away. "It's fine." She repeated, hunching her shoulders as she left in a rush. "Goodbye, Sherlock." The boy looked up slightly, watching the girl as she rushed away, one of her hands straying near her face as it to wipe it clean. A wave of guilt crashed over the teenager, and he heaved another heavy sigh. He hadn't meant to snap. He never did, when he stopped to think about it. But there wasn't much use in regretting such things…

Off to the side, Sherlock caught sight of figure poised his way. Expecting the normal stranger that he normally had on the sideline, Sherlock turned to throw a glare in their direction. For not knowing John at all, he certainly took a fancy to staring his way. But he stopped short as he realized that it wasn't John that was staring levelly at him. It was the boy from District One— Jim. The dark-haired teenager's eyes were trained onto Sherlock, who was still crouched over the tinder. And as Sherlock turned his way with a pre-sharpened look, a small smirk seemed to tug on the edges of his lips. How much had he seen?

Sherlock remained rooted where he was, looking in the direction of the Career and waiting for him to look away. He didn't. Jim's eyes only grew more and more interested the longer that Sherlock lingered, and after a moment of stubborn hesitation, the younger turned away first to glower down at the pile of sticks in front of him, locking his jaw backwards and ramming the sticks together again, with more force than was really needed. He tried not to focus on the fact that he had just told off Mary, who had seemed so friendly in her own right. Who he had laughed with this morning, even though it was on accident. Stop. He couldn't get saddened over such a trivial fact as losing someone who would just die in a few days. There wasn't anything to lose in the first place. He tried not to think of how cross Lestrade would be that he'd gone against one of the very simple instructions given.

And he tried not to think of Jim Moriarty's gaze burning a hole into his back.

(~**~) (~**~) (~**~) (~**~)

Mary was avoiding him. It was a rather obvious reaction after all the harsh words that Sherlock had thrown her way. But three days of silence was rather impressive, even to someone like Sherlock. The blonde ate breakfast early— she was always gone by the time Sherlock arrived to breakfast. She was stoic during dinner, only speaking to Anthea and Lestrade, and making it obvious that she was doing so. Once dinner was over, Mary would then retreat to her room without a single goodbye in Sherlock's direction. She didn't speak about her training session that morning or any sort of accomplishments she had made during that time. She spoke with Lestrade separately. Never with Sherlock in the same room. And whenever she caught his gaze on accident, she never offered him even the smallest hint of a smile.

It had bugged Sherlock at first, that somebody would have such a childish reaction to something so standard in the Hunger Games. But eventually he came to terms with it. They were being trained separately— that just meant he could have a more focused talk with Lestrade. Mary never spoke to him— that was a relief in itself, if things were to be perfectly honest. She didn't stay with him in the training arena— she would have slowed him down anyway; he was making much more progress when he was alone. Lestrade had been pained at the idea of them splitting apart at first, but, like Sherlock, he'd managed to realize there was no point in trying to patch things together again.

Which led him to the final day of Training. The day when he was expected to present himself for the Judges and get a score based on his talent and success predicted in the Games. Lestrade was still there when he got to the table, the man having to get up earlier and stay later thanks to Mary, who had already looped away by this point. Anthea was there as well. Or, as 'there' as she could get with the way that she was trained onto her phone. Advice was shared, a few trivial attempts at conversation as well, which quickly died away. Eventually, it got quiet. And that was better. Because it let Sherlock think more clearly.

He'd dressed, he'd showered, he'd readied himself, and he went down to the Training Center, steeled and braced to do the best he could. This was when things started to get dangerous. The thought was blatant in his mind, and he repeated the words as he went down to join the other Tributes. Most were there already, getting in a few last-minute practices before names were to be called. Practice swings with weapons, mock fights, warm ups were all around Sherlock as he tried to find a seat to wait in. He couldn't very well practice what he was planning to do for the Judges. The past few days he'd been trying to perfect his skills with a knife, but he didn't think he was nearly ready enough to use that particular skill to represent him. Lestrade had been correct when he'd said that the biggest asset that Sherlock had was himself. He'd keep it that way.

He took a seat near the back, finding no sense of pattern or assignment to what place he took. And, as the Judges started to rally everyone together and start the official routine, he clasped his hands in his lap firmly. He tried not to show his nerves, though it was hard not to. He could very well get a one. Or a two. Something low that would have the others look right over his head. Not that he wanted something to make him stand out, either. Blue eyes flashing over the group of teenagers, he found himself wishing for a subtle number. Like a seven or an eight. Just enough to make sure that nobody was about to count him out of the rally, but enough to keep his head low. Sponsors could be piqued with a seven…couldn't they? After the odd look sent his way by Jim Moriarty, he wasn't sure he liked the….attention.

Names started to be called, and Sherlock took in a deep breath. But suddenly, as the thought crossed his mind, the boy straightened. His eyes narrowed a little bit, and they swept the assembly yet again as he tried to find where Mary had gotten herself. Being so preoccupied with making sure that he himself was prepared enough for today, he'd often forgotten yet another one of Lestrade's simple instructions to keep his eyes out for others. He'd hardly seen Mary at all since he had rejected her so vehemently.

She was sitting in the front row of chairs. With two others. Sherlock stiffened in shock, and, absurdly, a little bit of betrayal as he recognized the pair that had come from District Twelve. Molly Hooper and John Watson sat on either side of Mary, whose shoulders were shaking as she appeared to be laughing at something John had said. Whenever Sherlock had seen her before now, she was always disgruntled and sad, morose as she shot subtle glares in the direction of the boy when the time called for such.

Now, though, she looked oddly at ease with the rivals, and Sherlock wondered how long she had been talking to them. Did Lestrade know? Certainly he couldn't! Mary was out of her mind! Those two were the least capable to be chosen— they would make absolutely horrible allies! Sherlock was fuming by now, a little bit pink in the face as he crossed his arms over his chest in a show of irritation. The girl looked like he could tap her shoulder and she would capsize. And the boy…well, he seemed like a good enough person to at least survive a little longer in the Arena. But with the way that he preoccupied himself with the girl….he would never be able to make it with such dead weight hanging behind him! Mary was a complete idiot! What was she thinking? How desperate was-

"Sherlock Holmes." He sat upright, caught off-guard from his own name for the second time as he was called suddenly. The other Tributes before him had finished their demonstrations already— it took shorter than he'd first thought. Sure enough, four people were missing from the room. Did they come back once they'd finished? He could only assume that they didn't, considering they were still absent. Mary perked at the sound of his name, turning back and looking squarely at him. Sherlock went rigid under her stare, and he braced himself for some sort of scowl or glare. But she only blinked once at him and turned back, her voice a small mumble as she started speaking to the others at her sides.

Glaring at the back of her head himself, Sherlock stood up from the chair, weaving through the others and heading into the gymnasium. Sure enough, the Gamemakers were waiting for him inside, silent and expectant as they only stared at him. No 'How-do-you-do' as the door slammed behind him, and no waves or greetings in general. Just silence. He nodded slightly, pacing forward and scanning the table of weapons waiting for him to choose. Others had probably pranced in here before him, scooping up the biggest and meanest-looking things and throwing them at walls, or stabbing through the dummies scattered through the expanse. Suddenly he was wondering if Lestrade was thinking right when he'd told Sherlock what he should do. But there wasn't much he could do now— suddenly he wished that he had asked more questions.

Inhaling sharply through his nose and forgetting Mary for the time being, Sherlock took one of the knives that were near the end of the table, looking over at the table of Gamemakers as he slowly paced towards them. There were too many of them, or at least way more than he had first anticipated. This wasn't going to work. His hands shook, a small tremor lacing through his nerves as he caught sight of the few men turn their attention back to their food, a few conversations murmuring out of the assembled as Sherlock came to halt and merely stood there. He had to do something. He didn't move. He couldn't just stand there and look stupid. Still, he was immobile as he stared straight ahead. How much time was he wasting?

After a few more moments of remaining stock-still, one of the Gamemakers cleared his throat. "Right." He huffed, sounding frustrated as he turned and started to shuffle through the papers that were lying out in front of him. "That will be all, then, District Three." He growled, Sherlock realizing that he was flipping from his own profile to Mary's. They were dismissing him. Sherlock's grip on the knife tightened in his hands, and he went rigid as his gaze snapped over to the man speaking. His jaw locked backwards, and he shifted from foot to foot. When he still didn't move, the man from before looked up, his gaze clashing with the young boy's. "I said that will be-"

"You would be easy." He blurted out, not letting the man finish as he exclaimed the first thing that came to his mind. The man straightened at this, looking confused and alarmed at the interruption. Sherlock flinched inwardly, but took in a deep breath, plowing along as best he could. Lestrade had told him that this was what he needed to do. Not only would he be doing the best he could, but it would cause him to stand out in the long run. "You suffer from a chronic asthma problem, one you've had since you were five. It's not as if you would last very long in the Arena yourself, considering you can't run more than a hundred paces before you're gasping on the ground. If I was feeling patient I could maybe consider just running you down until you gave out, but swift kicks to the throat and lungs would be more than enough to ensure that you become fully immobile, and therefore unable to fight back against anyone in the arena, let alone me." He said, forcing his words out a mile a minute.

He turned swiftly, rushing now in case they tried to cut him off. Sherlock's hostile blue eyes landed on a rather big fellow sitting beside the other, rounded out from the surplus of the Capitol food most likely, but probably more because of his weak ankles. He pointed this out with the hand that grasped the knife, eyes flashing as he allowed himself a small, confident smile. Or at least what he hoped was a confident smile. "You may think that not only age, but size limit me in this whole ordeal, but taking down somebody even in your stature would be mere child's play. You've weak ankles; a tedious problem for you, but a highly-ranked advantage for me. Not to be repetitive, but a kick would be all that it took to count you out as well. I would grab you by the arm, you can pick which one, and it doesn't really make a difference to me, and proceed to kick out your legs from underneath you— it wouldn't be a very hard task to accomplish. Landing on your back, you would proceed to expose your stomach, which, as you should probably know, would be a rather 'deadly' mistake on your part."

The boy spun around, pointing the sharp end of the knife in the direction of another, this time a thin man. "You sir, if you will permit me to unveil such embarrassing features, still have a little bit of soup on your shirt collar— which you should clean by the way, because it upsets your wife horribly, now doesn't it?" The thin man looked down at himself in disbelief and confusion, his forehead creased as Sherlock signaled out the rather large stain that had found itself embedded in the fibers of his button-down shirt. "A sign of a sloppy eater, there are always telltale signs. But no, a few poisoned berries slipped into your food and you wouldn't notice at all. That is until the cannon rings and I'm the one watching as you're pulled away. Now let's see here…" He was getting slightly winded from talking so quickly.

He turned, pointing at a woman who straightened once it got to her. The entire ensemble of Gamemakers looked confused, unsure of what to do or say as they exchanged glances from one to the other around them. Hoping that was for the best, Sherlock sped on for as long as he could. He didn't have much time left. "You've gotten your appendix taken out, fairly recently if I can be sure of that. You've a pain in your side, which gets drastic after strenuous movement or any sort of physical activity that has been going on for far too long. There are a number of ways I could go with killing you; of course, I would have a hay day trying to narrow it down enough for just a few. I could run you down, I could easily just kick you to the floor, or maybe I could get truly creative with it all and resort to chasing you up a tree— the effort of balancing and keeping your weight centered in order to stay upright would be enough to weaken you so much that I wouldn't even have to try for anything much afterwards." The woman's eyes widened at this.

He didn't have any more time.

Sherlock spun on his heel, pointing at the very last person he could get at the moment. "You." He quipped finally, offering a very wide smile. This time it was another man, whose gaze hardened as Sherlock met it. He'd a hard front on, something that was a little daunting but tolerable. At the moment at least. "And you." He repeated. He turned his back to the table, raising his hand that grasped the knife up into a perfectly-erect right angle. And, aiming for one of the dummies that was closest to him, he sent up a small wish that it would find its target. Whipping his hand back down, he let the weapon fly, let his arm drop as he watched it head for the target.

And just as he'd hoped, the knife dug into the mannequin's head squarely, a small thud emitting from the impact of the blow. And, smiling more of relief than anything, Sherlock faced back front with a smug twirl to meet the man's gaze again, confidently this time. And he gave an assured nod.

"I just wouldn't miss." He declared finally. The panel stared at him with wide eyes, nobody offering any sort of consolation to the efforts, or even a small thumbs-up. Not that he was expecting any, but it was nice to be optimistic at least. "Thank you." He said after a small moment of silence, clearing his throat and giving yet another small nod before turning and heading for the door. He let himself out, feeling yet another, final burst of satisfaction at the slam of the door behind him, and still not a single word from those he'd left behind.


End file.
